AFTER   DARK, 

ANO 

OTHER   STORIES. 


IB   IT  NEOESSABY   TO   SAY   IN    WHAT  LANGUAGE   THE   PBOOEED1NG6    WEBB   OPENED? 

{.page  314. 


MIDWAY    IN    THE    DA11K    AMI     LONELY     1'LAOK,  TUB    TWO    BTOl'I'KD    AJil>    OON8ULTKH    TOOETUKB 

UN    Wlllbl-BUa.  [JXI'JC  3tti, 


AFTER    DARK 


AND 


OTHER    STORIES 


BY 


WILKIE    COLLINS 

AUTHOR   OF 

"  THK    WOMAN    IN    WHITE  "    "  THE  DEAD  SECRET  "    "  ARMADALE  " 
"  THK    MOONSTONE  "    "  MAN    AND   WIFE  "  ETC.,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1  803 


YA 2236001 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK 

After  Dark 9 

Leaves  from  Leah's  Diary  : 

Prologue  to  the  First  Story 22 

The  Traveler's  Story  of  a  terribly  Strange  Bed 29 

Prologue  to  the  Second  Story 44 

The  Lawyers  Story  of  a  Stolen  Letter 48 

Prologue  to  the  Third  Story... '. 63 

The  French  Governess's  Story  of  Sister  Rose 69 

Epilogue  to  the  Third  Story 148 

Prologue  to  the  Fourth  Story 149 

The  Angler's  Sts>rv  of  the  Lady  of  Glenwith  Grange 155 

Prologue  to  the  Fifth  Story 173 

The  Nun's  Story  of  GabrieFs  Marriage 177 

Prologue  to  the  Sixth  Story 211 

The  Professor's  Story  of  the  Yellow  Mask 217 

Last  Leaves  from  Leah's  Diary 297 

Miss  or  Mrs.? 301 

The  Dead  Alive 371 

The  Fatal   Cradle,  otherwise,  the  Heart-rending   Story  of  Mr. 

Heavysides 420 

"  Blow  up  irith  the  Brig!"  A  Sailor's  Story 437 

The  Frozen  Deep 449 

Fatal  Fortune....  521 


AFTER   DARK. 


PREFACE  TO  "AFTER  DARK." 


I  HAVE  taken  some  pains  to  string  together  the  various 
stories  contained  in  this  Volume  on  a  single  thread  of  inter- 
est, which,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  at  least  the  merit  of  not 
having  been  used  before. 

The  pages  entitled  "  Leah's  Diary  "  are,  however,  intend- 
ed to  fulfill  another  purpose  besides  that  of  serving  as  the 
frame-work  for  my  collection  of  tales.  In  this  part  of  the 
book,  and  subsequently  in  the  Prologues  to  the  stories,  it 
has  been  my  object  to  give  the  reader  one  more  glimpse 
at  that  artist-life  which  circumstances  have  afforded  me  pe- 
culiar opportunities  of  studying,  and  which  I  have  already 
tried  to  represent,  under  another  aspect,  in  my  fiction, "  Hide- 
and-seek."  This  time  I  wish  to  ask  some  sympathy  for 
the  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  poor  traveling  portrait-painter— 
presented  from  his  wife's  point  of  view  in  "Leah's  Diary," 
and  supposed  to  be  briefly  and  simply  narrated  by  himself 
in  the  Prologues  to  the  stories.  I  have  purposely  kept  these 
two  portions  of  the  book  within  certains  limits;  only  giv- 
ing, in  the  one  case,  as  much  as  the  wife  might  naturally 
write  in  her  diary  at  intervals  of  household  leisure ;  and,  in 
the  other,  as  much  as  a  modest  and  sensible  man  would  be 
likely  to  say  about  himself  and  about  the  characters  he  met 
with  in  his  wanderings.  If  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
make  my  idea  intelligible  by  this  brief  and  simple  mode  of 
treatment,  and  if  I  have,  at  the  same  time,  achieved  the  nec- 
essary object  of  gathering  several  separate  stories  together 
as  neatly -fitting  parts  of  one  complete  whole,  I  shall  have 
succeeded  in  a  design  which  I  have  for  some  time  past  been 
very  anxious  creditably  to  fulfill. 


8  PREFACE. 

Of  the  tales  themselves,  taken  individually,  I  have  only 
to  say,  by  way  of  necessary  explanation,  that  "  The  Lady  of 
Glenwith  Grange"  is  now  offered  to  the  reader  for  the  first 
time;  and  that  the  other  stories  have  appeared  in  the  col- 
umns of  Household  Words.  My  best  thanks  are  due  to  Mr. 
Charles  Dickens  for  his  kindness  in  allowing  me  to  set  them 
in  their  present  frame-work. 

I  must  also  gratefully  acknowledge  an  obligation  of  an- 
other kind  to  the  accomplished  artist,  Mr.  W.  S.  Herrick,  to 
whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  curious  and  interesting  facts 
on  which  the  tales  of  "The  Terribly  Strange  Bed"  and 
"  The  Yellow  Mask  "  are  founded. 

Although  the  statement  may  appear  somewhat  superflu- 
ous to  those  who  know  me,  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to 
add,  in  conclusion,  that  these  stories  are  entirely  of  my  own 
imagining,  constructing,  and  writing.  The  fact  that  the 
events  of  some  of  my  tales  occur  on  foreign  ground,  and  are 
acted  out  by  foreign  personages,  appears  to  have  suggested 
in  some  quarters  the  inference  that  the  stories  themselves 
might  be  of  foreign  origin.  Let  me,  once  for  all,  assure  any 
readers  who  may  honor  me  with  their  attention,  that  in 
this,  and  in  all  other  cases,  they  may  depend  on  the  gen- 
uineness of  my  literary  offspring.  The  little  children  of 
my  brain  may  be  weakly  enough,  and  may  be  sadly  in  want 
of  a  helping  hand  to  aid  them  in  their  first  attempts  at 
walking  on  the  stage  of  this  great  world ;  but,  at  any  rate, 
they  are  not  borrowed  children.  The  members  of  my  own 
literary  family  are  indeed  increasing  so  fast  as  to  render  the 
very  idea  of  borrowing  quite  out  of  the  question,  and  to  sug- 
gest serious  apprehension  that  I  may  not  have  done  adding 
to  the  large  book-population,  on  my  own  sole  responsibility, 
even  yet. 


AFTER  DARK, 


LEAVES  FROM  LEAH'S  DIARY. 

18th  February,  1827. — The  doctor  has  just  called  for  the  third 
time  to  examine  my  husband's  eyes.  Thank  God,  there  is  no  fear 
at  present  of  my  poor  William  losing  his  sight,  provided  he  can  be 
prevailed  on  to  attend  rigidly  to  the  medical  instructions  for  pre- 
serving it.  These  instructions,  which  forbid  him  to  exercise  his 
profession  for  the  next  six  months  at  least,  are,  in  our  case,  very 
hard  to  follow.  They  will  but  too  probably  sentence  us  to  poverty, 
perhaps  to  actual  want ;  but  they  must  be  borne  resignedly,  and 
even  thankfully,  seeing  that  my  husband's  forced  cessation  from 
work  will  save  him  from  the  dreadful  affliction  of  loss  of  sight  I 
think  I  can  answer  for  my  own  cheerfulness  and  endurance,  now 
that  we  know  the  worst.  Can  I  answer  for  our  children  also? 
Surely  I  can,  when  there  are  only  two  of  them.  It  is  a  sad  confes- 
sion to  make,  but  now,  for  the  first  time  since  my  marriage,  I  feel 
thankful  that  we  have  no  more. 

17th. — A  dread  rame  over  me  last  night,  after  I  had  comforted 
William  as  well  as  I  could  about  the  future,  and  had  heard  him  fall 
off  to  sleep,  that  the  doctor  had  not  told  us  the  worst.  Medical 
men  do  sometimes  deceive  their  patients,  from  what  has  always 
seemed  to  me  to  be  misdirected  kindness  of  heart.  The  mere  sus- 
picion that  I  had  been  trifled  with  on  the  subject  of  my  husband's 
illness,  caused  me  such  uneasiness,  that  I  made  an  excuse  to  get  out, 
and  went  in  secret  to  the  doctor.  Fortunately,  I  found  him  at  home, 
and  in  three  words  I  confessed  to  him  the  object  of  my  visit. 

He  smiled,  and  said  I  might  make  myself  easy :  he  had  told  us 
the  worst. 

"And  that  worst,"  I  said,  to  make  certain,  "  is,  that  for  the  next 
six  months  my  husband  must  allow  his  eyes  to  have  the  most  per- 
fect repose  ?" 

"  Exactly,"  the  doctor  answered.  "  Mind,  I  don't  say  that  he  may 
not  dispense  with  his  green  shade,  indoors,  for  an  hour  or  two  at  a 
time,  as  the  inflammation  gets  subdued.  But  I  do  most  positively 


10  AFTER   DARK. 

repeat  that  he  must  not  employ  his  eyes.  He  must  not  touch  a  brush 
or  pencil ;  he  must  not  think  of  taking  another  likeness,  on  any 
consideration  whatever,  for  the  next  six  months.  His  persisting  in 
finishing  those  two  portraits,  at  the  time  when  his  eyes  first  began 
to  fail,  was  the  real  cause  of  all  the  bad  symptoms  that  we  have  had 
to  combat  ever  since.  I  warned  him  (if  you  remember,  Mrs.  Kerby  ?) 
when  he  first  came  to  practice  in  our  neighborhood." 

"  I  know  you  did,  sir,"  I  replied.  "  But  what  was  a  poor  travel- 
ing portrait-painter  like  my  husband,  who  lives  by  taking  likenesses 
first  in  one  place  and  then  in  another,  to  do  ?  Our  bread  depended 
on  his  using  his  eyes,  at  the  very  time  when  you  warned  him  to  let 
them  have  a  rest." 

"Have  you  no  other  resources?  No  money  but  the  money  Mr. 
Kerby  can  get  by  portrait-painting  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  None,"  I  answered,  with  a  sinking  at  my  heart  as  I  thought  of 
his  bill  for  medical  attendance. 

"  Will  you  pardon  me  ?"  he  said,  coloring  and  looking  a  little  un- 
easy, "  or,  rather,  will  you  ascribe  it  to  the  friendly  interest  I  feel  in 
you,  if  I  ask  whether  Mr.  Kerby  realizes  a  comfortable  income  by 
the  practice  of  his  profession  ?  Don't,"  he  went  on  anxiously,  be- 
fore I  could  reply — "pray  don't  think  I  make  this  inquiry  from  a 
motive  of  impertinent  curiosity!" 

I  felt  quite  satisfied  that  he  could  have  no  improper  motive  for 
asking  the  question,  and  so  answered  it  at  once  plainly  and  truly. 

"  My  husband  makes  but  a  small  income,"  I  said.  "  Famous 
London  portrait  -  painters  get  great  prices  from  their  sitters;  but 
poor  unknown  artists,  who  only  travel  about  the  country,  are 
obliged  to  work  hard  and  be  contented  with  very  small  gains. 
After  we  have  paid  all  that  we  owe  here,  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have 
little  enough  left  to  retire  on,  when  we  take  refuge  in  some  cheaper 
place." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  good  doctor  (I  am  so  glad  and  proud  to 
remember  that  I  always  liked  him  from  the  first !), "  in  that  case, 
don't  make  yourself  anxious  about  my  bill  when  you  are  thinking 
of  clearing  off  your  debts  here.  I  can  afford  to  wait  till  Mr.  Kerby's 
eyes  are  well  again,  and  I  shsll  then  ask  him  for  a  likeness  of  my 
little  daughter.  By  that  arrangement  we  are  sure  to  be  both  quits, 
and  both  perfe  ;tly  satisfied." 

He  considerately  shook  hands  and  bade  me  tarewell  before  I 
could  say  half  the  grateful  words  to  him  that  were  on  my  lips. 
Never,  never  shall  I  forget  that  he  relieved  me  of  my  two  heaviest 
anxieties  at  the  most  anxious  time  of  my  life.  The  merciful,  warm- 
hearted man  !  I  could  almost  have  knelt  down  and  kissed  his  door- 
step, as  I  crossed  it  on  my  way  home. 

18th. — If  I  had  not  resolved,  after  what  happened  yesterday,  to 


LEAVES   FROM   LBAH's   DIARY.  11 

look  only  at  the  cheerful  side  of  things  for  the  future,  the  events  of 
to-day  -would  have  robbed  me  of  all  my  courage,  at  the  very  outset 
of  our  troubles.  First,  then-  was  the  casting  up  of  our  hills,  and 
the  discovery,  when  the  amount  of  them  was  balanced  against  all 
the  money  we  have  saved  up,  that  we  shall  only  have  between  three 
and  four  pounds  left  in  the  cash-box,  after  we  have  got  out  of  debt. 
Then  there  was  the  sad  necessity  of  writing  letters  in  my  husband's 
name  to  the  rich  people  who  were  ready  to  employ  him,  telling 
them  of  the  affliction  that  had  overtaken  him,  and  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  his  executing  their  orders  for  portraits  for  the  next  six 
months  to  come.  And,  lastly,  there  was  the  heart-breaking  busi- 
ness for  me  to  go  through  of  giving  our  landlord  warning,  just  as 
we  had  got  comfortably  settled  in  our  new  abode.  If  William 
could  only  have  gone  on  with  his  work,  we  might  have  stopped  in 
this  town,  and  in  these  clean,  comfortable  lodgings  for  at  least  three 
or  four  months.  We  have  never  had  the  use  of  a  nice  empty  garret 
before,  for  the  children  to  play  in ;  and  I  never  met  with  any  land- 
lady so  pleasant  to  deal  with  in  the  kitchen  as  the  landlady  here. 
And  now  we  must  leave  all  this  comfort  and  happiness,  and  go — I 
hardly  know  where.  William,  in  his  bitterness,  says  to  the  work- 
house ;  but  that  shall  never  be.  if  I  have  to  go  out  to  service  to  pre- 
vent it.  The  darkness  is  coming  on,  and  we  must  save  in  candles, 
or  I  could  write  much  more.  Ah  me !  what  a  day  this  has  been. 
I  have  had  but  one  pleasant  moment  since  it  began ;  and  that  was 
in  the  morning,  when  I  set  my  little  Emily  to  work  on  a  bead  purse 
for  the  kind  doctor's  daughter.  My  child,  young  as  she  is,  is  won- 
derfully neat-handed  at  stringing  beads;  and  even  a  poor  little  emp- 
ty purse  as  a  token  of  our  gratitude,  is  better  than  nothing  at  all. 

IQth. — A  visit  from  our  best  friend  —  our  only  friend  here  —  the 
doctor.  After  he  had  examined  William's  eyes,  and  had  reported 
that  they  were  getting  on  as  well  as  can  be  hoped  at  present,  he 
asked  where  we  thought  of  going  to  live  ?  I  said  in  the  cheap- 
est place  we  could  find,  and  added  that  I  was  about  to  make  in- 
quiries in  the  by-streets  of  the  town  that  very  day.  "  Put  off  those 
inquiries."  he  said,  "  till  you  hear  from  me  again.  I  am  going  now 
to  see  a  patient  at  a  farm-house  five  miles  off.  (You  needn't  look 
at  the  children,  Mrs.  Kerl»y.  it's  nothing  infectious — only  a  clumsy 
lad,  who  has  broken  his  collar-bone  by  a  fall  from  a  horse.)  They 
receive  lodgers  occasionally  at  the  farm-house,  and  I  kn:>w  no  rea- 
son why  they  should  not  be  willing  to  receive  you.  If  you  want 
to  be  well  housed  and  well  fed  at  a  cheap  rate,  and  if  you  like  the 
society  of  honest,  hearty  people,  the  farm  of  Appletreewick  is  the 
very  place  for  you.  Don't  thank  me  till  you  know  whether  I  can  get 
you  these  new  lodgings  or  not.  And  in  the  mean  time  settle  all 
your  business  affairs  here,  so  as  to  be  able  to  move  at  a  moment's 


12  AFTER   DARK. 

notice."  With  those  words  the  kind-hearted  gentleman  nodded  and 
went  out.  Pray  Heaven  he  may  succeed  at  the  farm-house!  We 
may  be  sure  of  the  children's  health,  at  least,  if  we  live  in  the  coun- 
try. Talking  of  the  children,  I  must  not  omit  to  record  that  Emily 
has  nearly  done  one  end  of  the  bead  purse  already. 

ZQth. — A  note  from  the  doctor,  who  is  too  busy  to  call.  Such 
good  news !  They  will  give  us  two  bedrooms,  and  board  us  with 
the  family  at  Appletreewick  for  seventeen  shillings  a  week.  By  my 
calculations,  we  shall  have  three  pounds  sixteen  shillings  left,  after 
paying  what  we  owe  here.  That  will  be  enough,  at  the  outset,  for 
four  weeks'  living  at  the  farm-house,  with  eight  shillings  to  spare 
besides.  By  embroidery-work  I  can  easily  make  nine  shillings  more 
to  put  to  that,  and  there  is  a  fifth  week  provided  for.  Surely,  in 
five  weeks'  time — considering  the  number  of  things  I  can  turn  my 
hand  to — we  may  hit  on  some  plan  for  getting  a  little  money.  This 
is  what  I  am  always  telling  my  husband,  and  what,  by  dint  of  con- 
stantly repeating  it,  I  am  getting  to  believe  myself.  William,  as  is 
but  natural,  poor  fellow,  does  not  take  so  light-hearted  a  view  of  the 
future  as  I  do.  He  says  that  the  prospect  of  sitting  idle  and  being 
kept  by  his  wife  for  months  to  come,  is  something  more  wretched 
and  hopeless  than  words  can  describe.  I  try  to  raise  his  spirits  by 
reminding  him  of  his  years  of  honest  hard  work  for  me  and  the 
children,  and  of  the  doctor's  assurance  that  his  eyes  will  get  the 
better,  in  good  time,  of  their  present  helpless  state.  But  he  still 
sighs  and  murmurs — being  one  of  the  most  independent  and  high- 
spirited  of  men — about  living  a  burden  on  his  wife.  I  can  only  an- 
swer, what  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel,  that  I  took  him  for  Better 
and  for  Worse ;  that  I  have  had  many  years  of  the  Better,  and  that, 
even  in  our  present  trouble,  the  Worse  shows  no  signs  of  coming  yet ! 

The  bead  purse  is  getting  on  fast.  Red  and  blue,  in  a  pretty 
striped  pattern. 

21*£. — A  busy  day.  We  go  to  Appletreewick  to-morrow.  Pay- 
ing bills  and  packing  up.  All  poor  William's  new  canvases  and 
painting-things  huddled  together  into  a  packing-case.  He  looked 
so  sad,  sitting  silent  with  his  green  shade  on,  while  his  old  familiar 
working  materials  were  disappearing  around  him,  as  if  he  and  they 
were  never  to  come  together  again,  that  the  tears  would  start  into 
my  eyes,  though  I  am  sure  I  am  not  one  of  the  crying  sort.  Luck- 
ily, the  green  shade  kept  him  from  seeing  me ;  and  I  took  good  care, 
though  the  effort  nearly  choked  me,  that  he  should  not  hear  I  was 
crying,  at  any  rate. 

The  bead  purse  is  done.  How  are  we  to  get  the  steel  rings  and 
tassels  for  it  ?  I  am  not  justified  now  in  spending  sixpence  unnec- 
essarily, even  for  the  best  of  purposes. 


LEAVES   FUOM    LEAH*8    DIARY.  18 

2&J.  The  Farm  of  Applttreewick. — Too  tired,  after  our  move  yes- 
terday, to  write  a  word  in  my  diary  atx>ut  our  jouniry  to  this  de- 
lightful place.  Hut  now  that  we  are  beginning  to  get  settled,  I  can 
manage  to  make  up  for  past  omissions. 

My  first  occupation  on  the  morning  of  the  move  had,  oddly 
enough,  nothing  to  do  with  our  departure  for  the  farm-house.  The 
moment  breakfast  was  over  I  began  the  day  by  making  Emily  as 
smart  and  nice-looking  as  I  could,  to  go  to  the  doctor's  with  the 
purse.  She  had  her  best  silk  frock  on,  showing  the  mending  a  little 
in  some  places,  I  am  afraid,  and  her  straw  hat  trimmed  with  my  bon- 
net ribbon.  Her  father's  neck-scarf,  turned  and  joined  so  that  nobody 
could  see  it,  made  a  nice  mantilla  for  her;  and  away  she  went  to  the 
doctor's,  with  her  little,  determined  step,  and  the  purse  in  her  hand 
(such  a  pretty  hand  that  it  is  hardly  to  be  regretted  I  had  no  gloves 
for  her).  They  were  delighted  with  the  purse — which  I  ought  to 
mention  was  finished  with  some  white  beads;  we  found  them  in 
rummaging  among  our  boxes,  and  they  made  beautiful  rings  and 
tassels,  contrasting  charmingly  with  the  blue  and  red  of  the  rest  of 
the  purse.  The  doctor  and  his  little  girl  were,  as  I  have  said,  de- 
lighted with  the  present ;  and  they  gave  Emily,  in  return,  a  work- 
box  for  herself,  and  a  box  of  sugar-plums  for  her  baby  sister.  The 
child  came  back  all  flushed  with  the  pleasure  of  the  visit,  and  quite 
helped  to  keep  up  her  father's  spirits  with  talking  to  him  about  it. 
So  much  for  the  highly  interesting  history  of  the  bead  purse. 

Toward  the  afternoon  the  light  cart  from  the  farm-house  came  to 
fetch  us  and  our  things  to  Appletreewick.  It  was  quite  a  warm 
spring  day.  and  I  had  another  pang  to  bear  as  I  saw  poor  William 
helped  into  the  cart,  looking  so  sickly  and  sad,  with  his  miserable 
green  shade,  in  the  cheerful  sunlight.  "  God  only  knows,  Leah, 
how  this  will  succeed  with  us,"  he  said,  as  we  started ;  then  sighed, 
and  fell  silent  again. 

Just  outside  the  town  the  doctor  met  us.  "  Good  luck  go  with 
you!"  he  cried,  swinging  his  stick  in  his  usual  hasty  way;  "I  shall 
come  and  see  you  as  soon  as  you  are  all  settled  at  the  farm-house." 
"Good-bye,  sir,"  says  Emily,  struggling  up  with  all  her  might 
among  the  bundles  in  the  bottom  of  the  cart ;  "good-bye,  and  thank 
you  again  for  the  work-box  and  the  sugar-plums."  That  was  my 
child  all  over !  she  never  wants  telling.  The  doctor  kissed  his  hand, 
and  gave  another  flourish  with  his  stick.  So  we  parted. 

How  I  should  have  enjoyed  the  drive  if  William  could  only  have 
looked,  as  I  did,  at  the  young  firs  on  the  heath  bending  beneath  the 
steady  breeze ;  at  the  shadows  flying  over  the  smooth  fields ;  at  the 
high  white  clouds  moving  on  and  on,  in  their  grand  airy  procession 
over  the  gladsome  blue  sky !  It  was  a  hilly  road,  and  I  begged  the 
lad  who  drove  us  not  to  press  the  horse ;  so  we  were  nearly  an  hour, 


14  AFTER  DARK. 

at  our  slow  rate  of  going,  before  we  drew  up  at  the  gate  of  Apple- 
treewick. 

24th  February  to  2d  March. — We  have  now  been  here  long  enough 
to  know  something  of  the  place  and  the  people.  First,  as  to  the 
place  :  Where  the  farm-house  now  is,  there  was  once  a  famous  pri- 
ory. The  tower  is  still  standing,  and  the  great  room  where  the 
monks  ate  and  drank  —  used  at  present  as  a  granary.  The  house 
itself  seems  to  have  been  tacked  on  to  the  ruins  anyhow.  No  two 
rooms  in  it  are  on  the  same  level.  The  children  do  nothing  but 
tumble  about  the  passages,  because  there  always  happens  to  be  a 
step  up  or  down,  just  at  the  darkest  part  of  every  one  of  them.  As 
for  staircases,  there  seems  to  me  to  be  one  for  each  bedroom.  I  do 
nothing  but  lose  my  way — and  the  farmer  says,  drolling,  that  he 
must  have  sign-posts  put  up  for  me  in  every  corner  of  the  house 
from  top  to  bottom.  On  the  ground-floor,  besides  the  usual  domes- 
tic offices,  we  have  the  best  parlor — a  dark,  airless,  expensively 
furnished  solitude,  never  invaded  by  any  body;  the  kitchen,  and  a 
kind  of  hall,  with  a  fire-place  as  big  as  the  drawing-room  at  our 
town  lodgings.  Here  we  live  and  take  our  meals;  here  the  chil- 
dren can  racket  about  to  their  hearts'  content ;  here  the  dogs  come 
lumbering  in,  whenever  they  can  get  loose ;  here  wages  are  paid,  vis- 
itors are  received,  bacon  is  cured,  cheese  is  tasted,  pipes  are  smoked, 
and  naps  are  taken  every  evening  by  the  male  members  of  the  fam- 
ily. Never  was  such  a  comfortable,  friendly  dwelling-place  devised 
as  this  hall ;  I  feel  already  as  if  half  my  life  had  been  passed  in  it. 

Out-of-doors,  looking  beyond  the  flower-garden,  lawn,  back  yard*, 
pigeon-houses,  and  kitchen  -  gardens,  we  are  surrounded  by  a  net- 
work of  smooth  grazing-fields,  each  shut  off  from  the  other  by  its 
neat  hedgerow  and  its  sturdy  gate.  Beyond  the  fields  the  hills 
seem  to  flow  away  gently  from  us  into  the  far  blue  distance,  till 
they  are  lost  in  the  bright  softness  of  the  sky.  At  one  point,  which 
we  can  see  from  our  bedroom  windows,  they  dip  suddenly  into  the 
plain,  and  show,  over  the  rich  marshy  flat,  a  strip  of  distant  sea — a 
strip  sometimes  blue,  sometimes  gray ;  sometimes,  when  the  sun 
sets,  a  streak  of  fire;  sometimes,  on  showery  days,  a  flash  of  silver 
light. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  farm-house  have  one  great  and  rare  merit 
— they  are  people  whom  you  can  make  friends  with  at  once.  Be- 
tween not  knowing  them  at  all,  and  knowing  them  well  enough  to 
shake  hands  at  first  sight,  there  is  no  ceremonious  interval  or  form- 
al gradation  whatever.  They  received  us,  on  our  arrival,  exactly 
as  if  we  were  old  friends  returned  from  some  long  traveling  expe- 
dition. Before  we  had  been  ten  minutes  in  the  hall,  William  had 
the  easiest  chair  and  the  snuggest  corner ;  the  children  were  eating 
bread-and-jam  on  the  window-seat ;  and  I  was  talking  to  the  farm- 


LEAVES    FROM    I.BAH*S    DIARY.  10 

er's  wife,  with  the  cat  on  nay  lap,  of  the  time  when  Emily  had  the 
measles. 

The  family  numbers  seven,  exclusive  of  the  indoor  servants,  of 
course.  First  come  the  farmer  an. I  liis  wife — he  a  tall,  sturdy,  loud- 
voiced,  active  old  man — she  the  easiest,  plumpest,  and  gayest  woman 
of  sixty  I  ever  met  with.  They  have  three  sons  and  two  daughters. 
The  two  el.  lest  of  the  young  men  are  employed  on  the  farm;  the 
third  is  a  sailor,  and  is  making  holiday-time  of  it  just  now  at  Apple- 
treewick.  The  daughters  are  pictures  of  health  and  freshness.  I 
have  but  one  complaint  to  make  against  them — they  are  beginning 
to  spoil  the  children  already. 

In  this  tnmquil  place,  and  among  these  genial,  natural  people, 
how  happily  my  time  might  l>e  passed,  were  it  not  for  the  sadden- 
ing sight  of  William's  affliction,  and  the  wearing  uncertainty  of 
how  we  are  to  provide  for  future  necessities!  It  is  a  hard  thing  for 
my  husband  and  me,  after  having  had  the  day  made  pleasant  by 
kind  words  and  friendly  offices,  to  feel  this  one  anxious  thought  al- 
ways forcing  itself  on  us  at  night :  Shall  we  have  the  means  of  stop- 
ping in  our  new  home  in  a  month's  time  ? 

3d.— A  rainy  day;  the  children  difficult  to  manage;  William  mis. 
erably  despondent.  Perhaps  he  influenced  me,  or  perhaps  I  felt 
my  little  troubles  with  the  children  more  than  usual;  but,  however 
it  was,  I  have  not  been  so  heavy-hearted  since  the  day  when  my 
husband  first  put  on  the  green  shade.  A  listless,  hopeless  sensation 
would  steal  over  me ;  but  why  write  about  it  ?  Better  to  try  and 
forget  it.  There  is  always  to-morrow  to  look  to  when  to-day  is  at 
the  worst. 

4th. — To-morrow  has  proved  worthy  of  the  faith  I  put  in  it.  Sun- 
shine again  out-of-doors ;  and  as  clear  and  true  a  reflection  of  it  in 
my  own  heart  as  I  can  hope  to  have  just  at  this  time.  Oh !  that 
month,  that  one  poor  month  of  respite  !  What  are  we  to  do  at  the 
end  of  the  month  ? 

5th. — I  made  my  short  entry  for  yesterday  in  the  afternoon  just 
before  tea-time,  little  thinking  of  events  destined  to  happen  with 
the  evening  that  would  be  really  worth  chronicling,  for  the  sake  of 
the  excellent  results  to  which  they  are  sure  to  lead.  My  tendency 
is  to  be  too  sanguine  about  every  thing,  I  know ;  but  I  am,  neverthe- 
less, firmly  persuaded  that  I  can  see  a  new  way  out  of  our  present 
difficulties — a  way  of  getting  money  enough  to  keep  us  all  in  com- 
fort at  the  farm-house  until  William's  eyes  are  well  again. 

The  new  project  which  is  to  relieve  us  from  all  uncertainties  f«w 
the  next  six  months  actually  originated  with  me  !  It  has  raised  me 
many  inches  higher  in  my  own  estimation  already.  If  the  doctor 
only  agrees  with  my  view  of  the  case  when  he  comes  to-morrow, 
William  will  allow  himself  to  be  persuaded,  I  know ;  and  then  let 
them  say  what  they  please,  I  will  answer  for  the  rest. 


16  AFTEK   1XA.BK. 

This  is  how  the  new  idea  first  found  its  way  into  my  head : 

We  had  just  done  tea.  William,  in  much  better,spirits  than  usual, 
was  talking  with  the  young  sailor,  who  is  jocosely  called  here  by 
the  very  ugly  name  of  "  Foul- weather  Dick."  The  farmer  and  his 
two  eldest  sons  were  composing  themselves  on  the  oaken  settles  for 
their  usual  nap.  The  dame  was  knitting,  the  two  girls  were  be- 
ginning to  clear  the  tea-table,  and  I  was  darning  the  children's 
socks.  To  all  appearance,  this  was  not  a  very  propitious  state  of 
things  for  the  creation  of  new  ideas,  and  yet  my  idea  grew  out  of  it 
for  all  that.  Talking  with  my  husband  on  various  subjects  con- 
nected with  life  in  ships,  tlie  young  sailor  began  giving  us  a  descrip- 
tion of  his  hammock ;  telling  us  how  it  was  slung ;  how  it  was  im- 
possible to  get  into  it  any  other  way  than  "  stern  foremost "  (what- 
ever that  may  mean) ;  how  the  rolling  of  the  ship  made  it  rock  like 
a  cradle ;  and  how,  on  rough  nights,  it  sometimes  swayed  to  and 
fro  at  such  a  rate  as  to  bump  bodily  against  the  ship's  side  and  wake 
him  up 'with  the  sensation  of  having  just  received  a  punch  on  the 
head  from  a  remarkably  hard  fist.  Hearing  all  this,  I  ventured  to 
suggest  that  it  must  be  an  immense  relief  to  him  to  sleep  on  shore 
in  a  good,  motionless,  solid  four-post  bed.  But,  to  my  surprise,  he 
scoffed  at  the  idea ;  said  he  never  slept  comfortably  out  of  his  ham- 
mock ;  declared  that  he  quite  missed  his  occasional  punch  on  the 
head  from  the  ship's  side ;  and  ended  by  giving  a  most  comical  ac- 
count of  all  the  uncomfortable  sensations  he  felt  when  he  slept  in  a 
four-post  bed.  The  odd  nature  of  one  of  the  young  sailor's  objec- 
tions to  sleeping  on  shore  reminded  my  husband  (as  indeed  it  did 
me  too)  of  the  terrible  story  of  a  bed  in  a  French  gambling-house, 
which  he  once  heard  from  a  gentleman  whose  likeness  he  took. 

"  You're  laughing  at  me,"  says  honest  Foul-weather  Dick,  seeing 
William  turn  toward  me  and  smile. — "  No,  indeed,"  says  my  hus- 
band ;  "  that  last  objection  of  yours  to  the  four-post  beds  on  shore 
seems  by  no  means  ridiculous  to  me,  at  any  rate.  I  once  knew  a 
gentleman,  Dick,  who  practically  realized  your  objection." 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  says  Dick,  after  a  pause,  and  with  an  appear- 
ance of  great  bewilderment  and  curiosity ;  "  but  could  you  put 
'  practically  realized '  into  plain  English,  so  that  a  poor  man  like  me 
might  have  a  chance  of  understanding  you?"  —  "Certainly!"  says 
my  husband,  mughing.  "  I  mean  that  I  once  knew  a  gentleman  who 
actually  saw  and  felt  what  you  say  in  jest  you  are  afraid  of  seeing 
and  feeling  whenever  you  sleep  in  a  four-post  bed.  Do  you  under- 
stand that  ?"  Foul-weather  Dick  understood  it  perfectly,  and  beg- 
ged with  great  eagerness  to  hear  what  the  gentleman's  adventure 
really  was.  The  dame,  who  had  been  listening  to  our  talk,  backed 
her  son's  petition;  the  two  girls  sat  down  expectant  at  the  half- 
cleared  tea-table;  even  the  farmer  and  his  drowsy  sons  roused 


LEAVES   FROM   LEAIl's   DIARY.  17 

themselves  lazily  on  the  settle  —  my  husband  saw  that  he  stood 
fairly  committed  to  the  relation  of  the  story,  so  he  told  it  without 
more  ado. 

I  have  often  heard  him  relate  that  strange  adventure  (William  is 
the  best  teller  of  a  story  I  ever  met  with)  to  friends  of  all  ranks  in 
many  different  parts  of  England,  and  I  never  yet  knew  it  fail  of  pro- 
ducing an  effect.  The  farm-house  audience  were,  I  may  almost  say, 
petrified  by  it.  I  never  before  saw  people  look  so  long  in  the  same 
direction,  and  sit  so  long  in  the  same  attitude,  as  they  did.  Even 
the  servants  stole  away  from  their  work  in  the  kitchen,  and,  unre- 
buked  by  master  or  mistress,  stood  quite  spell-bound  in  the  door- 
way to  listen.  Observing  all  this  in  silence,  while  my  husband  was 
going  on  with  his  narrative,  the  thought  suddenly  flashed  across  me, 
"  Why  should  William  not  get  a  wider  audience  for  that  story,  as 
well  as  for  others  which  he  has  heard  from  time  to  time  from  his 
sitters,  and  which  he  has  hitherto  only  repeated  in  private  among  a 
few  friends  ?  People  tell  stories  in  books  and  get  money  for  them. 
What  if  we  told  our  stories  in  a  book  ?  and  what  if  the  book  sold  ? 
Why  freedom,  surely,  from  the  one  great  anxiety  that  is  now  preying 
on  us !  Money  enough  to  stop  at  the  farm-house  till  William's  eyes 
are  fit  for  work  again !"  I  almost  jumped  up  from  my  chair  as  my 
thought  went  on  shaping  itself  in  this  manner.  When  great  men 
make  wonderful  discoveries,  do  they  feel  sensations  like  mine,  I  won- 
der ?  Was  Sir  Isaac  Newton  within  an  ace  of  skipping  into  the  air 
when  he  first  found  out  the  law  of  gravitation  ?  Did  Friar  Bacon 
long  to  dance  when  he  lit  the  match  and  heard  the  first  charge  of 
gunpowder  in  the  world  go  off  with  a  bang  ? 

I  had  to  put  a  strong  constraint  on  myself,  or  I  should  have  com- 
municated all  that  was  passing  in  my  mind  to  William  before  our 
friends  at  the  farm-house.  But  I  knew  it  was  best  to  wait  until  we 
were  alone,  and  I  did  wait.  What  a  relief  it  was  when  we  all  got 
up  at  last  to  say  good-night ! 

The  moment  we  were  in  our  own  room,  I  could  not  stop  to  take 
so  much  as  a  pin  out  of  my  dress  before  I  began.  "  My  dear,"  said 
I, "  I  never  heard  you  tell  that  gambling-house  adventure  so  well 
before.  What  an  effect  it  had  upon  our  friends !  what  an  effect,  in- 
deed, it  always  has  wherever  you  tell  it !" 

So  far  he  did  not  seem  to  take  much  notice.  He  just  nodded, 
and  began  to  pour  out  some  of  the  lotion  in  which  he  always  bathes 
his  poor  eyes  the  last  thing  at  night. 

u  And  as  for  that,  William,"  I  went  on,  "all  your  stories  seem  to 
interest  people.  What  a  number  you  have  picked  up,  first  and  last, 
from  different  sitters,  in  the  fifteen  years  of  your  practice  as  a  por- 
trait-painter !  Have  you  any  idea  how  many  stories  you  really  do 
know  ?" 

I 


No :  be  could,  not  undertake  to  say  how  many  just  then.  He 
gave  this  answer  in  a  very  indifferent  tone,  dabbing  away  all  the 
time  at  his  eyes  with  the  sponge  and  lotion.  He  did  it  so  awk- 
wardly and  roughly,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  that  I  took  the  sponge  from 
him  and  applied  the  lotion  tenderly  myself. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  I,  "if  you  turned  over  one  of  your  stories 
carefully  in  your  mind  beforehand — say  the  one  you  told  to-night, 
for  example— that  you  could  repeat  it  all  to  me  so  perfectly  and 
deliberately  that  I  should  be  able  to  take  it  down  in  writing  from 
your  lips  ?" 

Yes :  of  course  he  could.     But  why  ask  that  question  ? 

"  Because  I  should  like  to  have  all  the  stories  that  you  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  relating  to  our  friends  set  down  fairly  in  writing,  by 
way  of  preserving  them  from  ever  being  forgotten." 

Would  I  bathe  his  left  eye  now,  because  that  felt  the  hottest  to- 
night ?  I  began  to  forbode  that  his  growing  indifference  to  what  I 
was  saying  would  soon  end  in  his  fairly  going  to  sleep  before  I  had 
developed  my  new  idea,  unless  I  took  some  means  forthwith  of  stim- 
ulating his  curiosity,  or,  in  other  words,  of  waking  him  into  a  proper 
state  of  astonishment  and  attention.  "  William,"  said  I,  without  an- 
other syllable  of  preface,  "  I  have  got  a  new  plan  for  finding  all  the 
money  we  want  for  our  expenses  here." 

He  jerked  his  head  up  directly,  and  looked  at  me.     What  plan  ? 

"  This  :  The  state  of  your  eyes  prevents  you  for  the  present  from 
following  your  profession  as  an  artist,  does  it  not  ?  Very  well. 
What  are  you  to  do  with  your  idle  time,  my  dear  ?  Turn  author ! 
And  how  are  you  to  get  the  money  we  want?  By  publishing  a 
book !" 

"  Good  gracious,  Leah  !  are  you  out  of  your  senses  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

I  put  my  arm  round  his  neck  and  sat  down  on  his  knee  (the  course 
I  always  take  when  I  want  to  persuade  him  to  any  thing  with  as  few 
words  as  possible). 

"  Now,  William,  listen  patiently  to  me,"  I  said.  "An  artist  lies 
under  this  great  disadvantage  in  case  of  accidents — his  talents  are 
of  no  service  to  him  unless  he  can  use  his  eyes  and  fingers.  An 
author,  on  the  other  hand,  can  turn  his  talents  to  account  just  as 
well  by  means  of  other  people's  eyes  and  fingers  as  by  means  of 
his  own.  In  your  present  situation,  therefore,  you  have  nothing  for 
it,  as  I  said  before,  but  to  turn  author.  Wait !  and  hear  me  out. 
The  book  I  want  you  to  make  is  a  book  of  all  your  stories.  You 
shall  repeat  them^  and  I  will  write  them  down  from  your  dictation. 
Our  manuscript  shall  be  printed;  we  will  sell  the  book  to  the  pub- 
lic, and  so  support  ourselves  honorably  in  adversity,  by  doing  the 
best  we  can  to  interest  and  amuse  others." 

While  I  was  saying  all  this — I  suppose  in  a  very  excitable  manner 


LEAVES  FROM  LEAH'S  DIARY.  Id 

— my  husband  looked,  as  our  young  sailor- friend  would  phrase  it, 
quite  taken  aback.  "  You  were  always  quick  at  contriving,  Leah," 
lie  s;iid  ;  "hut  how  in  the  world  came  you  to  think  of  this  plan  ?" 

"  I  thought  of  it  while  you  were  telling  them  the  gambling  -house 
adventure  down  stairs,"  I  answered. 

••  It  is  :in  ingenious  idea,  and  a  liold  i<lea,"  he  went  on,  thought- 
fully. "But  it  is  one  thing  to  tell  a  story  to  a  circle  of  friends,  and 
another  thing  to  put  it  into  a  printed  form  for  an  audience  of  stran- 
gers. Consider,  my  dear,  that  we  are  neither  of  us  used  to  what  is 
called  writing  for  the  press." 

"  Very  true,"  said  I,  "  but  nobody  is  used  to  it  when  they  first  be- 
gin, and  yet  plenty  of  people  have  tried  the  hazardous  literary  ex- 
periment successfully.  Besides,  in  our  case,  we  have  the  materials 
ready  to  our  hands;  surely  we  can  succeed  in  shaping  them  present- 
alily  if  we  aim  at  nothing  but  the  simple  truth." 

••  Who  is  to  do  the  eloquent  descriptions  and  the  striking  reflec- 
tions, and  all  that  part  of  it?"  said  William,  perplexedly  shaking 
his  head. 

"Nobody  !"  I  replied.  "The  eloquent  descriptions  and  the  strik- 
ing reflections  are  just  the  parts  of  a  story-book  that  people  never 
read.  Whatever  we  do,  let  us  not,  if  we  can  possibly  help  it,  write 
so  much  as  a  single  sentence  that  can  be  conveniently  skipped. 
Come !  come  !"  I  continued,  seeing  him  begin  to  shake  his  head 
again  ;  "  no  more  objections,  William,  I  am  too  certain  of  the  suc- 
cess of  my  plan  to  endure  them.  If  you  still  doubt,  let  us  refer  the 
new  project  to  a  competent  arbitrator.  The  doctor  is  coming  to  see 
you  to-morrow.  I  will  tell  him  all  that  I  have  told  you;  and  if  you 
will  promise  on  your  side,  I  will  engage  on  mine  to  be  guided  en- 
tirely by  his  opinion." 

William  smiled,  and  readily  gave  the  promise.  This  was  all  I 
wanted  to  send  me  to  bed  in  the  best  spirits.  For,  of  course,  I 
should  never  have  thought  of  mentioning  the  doctor  as  an  arbitra- 
tor, if  I  had  not  known  beforehand  that  he  was  sure  to  be  on  my 
side. 

fi/A. — The  arbitrator  has  shown  that  he  deserved  my  confidence 
in  him.  He  ranked  himself  entirely  on  my  side  before  I  had  half 
done  explaining  to  him  what  my  new  project  really  was.  As  to  my 
husbaini I's  doubts  and  difficulties,  the  dear  good  man  would  not  so 
much  as  hear  them  mentioned.  "No  objections,"  he  cried,  gayly; 

MI  to  work.  Mr.  Kerby,  and  make  yoor  fortune.  I  always  said 
your  wife  was  worth  her  weight  in  gold — and  here  she  is  now,  all 
ready  to  get  into  the  book-seller's  scales  and  prove  it.  Set  to  work  1 
set  to  work  !" 

-  With  all  my  heart,"  said  William,  beginning  at  last  to  catch  the 
infection  of  our  enthusiasm.  "  But  when  my  part  of  the  work  and 


20  AiTEU    DARK, 

my  wife's  has  been  completed,  what  are  we  to  do  with  the  produce 
of  our  labor  ?" 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  answered  the  doctor.  "  Finish  your  book, 
and  send  it  to  my  house ;  I  will  show  it  at  once  to  the  editor  of  our 
country  newspaper.  He  has  plenty  of  literary  friends  in  London, 
and  he  will  be  just  the  man  to  help  you.  By-the-bye,"  added  the 
doctor,  addressing  me,  "  you  think  of  every  thing,  Mrs.  Kerby ;  pray 
have  you  thought  of  a  name  yet  for  the  new  book  ?" 

At  that  question  it  was  my  turn  to  be  "  taken  aback."  The  idea 
of  naming  the  book  had  never  once  entered  my  head. 

"A  good  title  is  of  vast  importance,"  said  the  doctor,  knitting  his 
brows  thoughtfully.  "  We  must  all  think  about  that.  What  shall 
it  be  ?  eh,  Mrs.  Kerby,  what  shall  it  be  ?" 

"Perhaps  something  may  strike  us  after  we  have  fairly  set  to 
work,"  my  husband  suggested.  "  Talking  of  work,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  me,  "  how  are  you  to  find  time,  Leah,  with  your  nursery 
occupations,  for  writing  down  all  the  stories  as  T  tell  them  ?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  that  this  morning,"  said  I,  "  and  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  shall  have  but  little  leisure  to  write 
from  your  dictation  in  the  day-time.  What  with  dressing  and  wash- 
ing the  children,  teaching  them,  giving  them  their  meals,  taking 
them  out  to  walk,  and  keeping  them  amused  at  home— to  say  noth- 
ing of  sitting  sociably  at  work  with  the  dame  and  her  two  girls  in 
the  afternoon — I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  few  opportunities  of  doing 
my  part  of  the  book  between  breakfast  and  tea-time.  But  when 
the  children  are  in  bed,  and  the  farmer  and  his  family  are  reading 
or  dozing,  I  should  have  at  least  three  unoccupied  hours  to  spare. 
So,  if  you  don't  mind  putting  off  our  working-time  till  after  dark — 

"  There's  the  title  !"  shouted  the  doctor,  jumping  out  of  his  chair 
as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"  Where  ?"  cried  I,  looking  all  round  me  in  the  surprise  of  the 
moment,  as  if  I  had  expected  to  see  the  title  magically  inscribed  for 
us  on  the  walls  of  the  room. 

"  In  your  last  words,  to  be  sure !"  rejoined  the  doctor.  "  You 
said  just  now  that  you  would  not  have  leisure  to  write  from  Mr. 
Kerby's  dictation  till  after  dark.  What  can  we  do  better  than  name 
the  book  after  the  time  when  the  book  is  written  ?  Call  it  boldly, 
After  Dark.  Stop !  before  any  body  says  a  word  for  or  against  it, 
let  us  see  how  the  name  looks  on  paper." 

I  opened  my  writing-desk  in  a  great  flutter.  The  doctor  selected 
the  largest  sheet  of  paper  and  the  broadest  -  nibbed  pen  he  could 
find,  and  wrote  in  majestic  round- text  letters,  with  alternate  thin 
and  thick  strokes  beautiful  to  see,  the  two  cabalistic  words: 

AFTER  DARK. 


LEAVES   FROM    LEAH^S    DIARY.  21 

We  all  three  laid  our  heads  together  over  the  paper,  and  in 
breathless  silence  studied  the  effect  of  the  round-text:  William  rais- 
ing his  green  shade  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and  actual- 
ly disolu -yiiiLT  the  doctor's  orders  about  not  using  his  eyes,  in  the 
doctor's  own  presence !  After  a  good  long  stare,  we  looked  round 
solemnly  in  each  other's  faces  and  nodded.  There  was  no  doubt 
whatever  on  the  subject  after  seeing  the  round-text.  In  one  happy 
moment  the  doctor  had  hit  on  the  right  name. 

••  I  have  written  the  title-page,"  said  our  good  friend,  taking  up 
his  hat  to  go.  "  And  now  I  leave  it  to  you  two  to  write  the  book." 

Since  then  I  have  mended  four  pens  and  bought  a  quire  of  letter- 
paper  at  the  village  shop.  William  is  to  ponder  well  over  his  stories 
in  the  day-time,  so  as  to  be  quite  ready  for  me  "after  dark."  We 
are  to  commence  our  new  occupation  this  evening.  My  heart  beats 
fast  and  my  eyes  moisten  when  I  think  of  it.  How  many  of  our 
ilean-t  intfiv-t^  depend  upon  the  one  little  beginning  that  we  are 
to  make  to-night! 


22  AFTER   DARK. 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  FIRST  STORY. 

BEFORE  I  begin,  by  the  aid  of  my  wife's  patient  attention  anu 
ready  pen,  to  relate  any  of  the  stories  which  I  have  heard  at  various 
times  from  persons  whose  likenesses  I  have  been  employed  to  take, 
it  will  not  be  amiss  if  I  try  to  secure"  the  reader's  interest  in  the  fol- 
lowing pages,  by  briefly  explaining  how  I  became  possessed  of  the 
narrative  matter  which  they  contain. 

Of  myself  I  have  nothing  to  say,  but  that  I  have  followed  the  pro- 
fession of  a  traveling  portrait-painter  for  the  last  fifteen  years.  The 
pursuit  of  my  calling  has  not  only  led  me  all  through  England,  but 
has  taken  me  twice  to  Scotland,  and  once  to  Ireland.  In  moving 
from  district  to  district,  I  am  never  guided  beforehand  by  any  set- 
tled plan.  Sometimes  the  letters  of  recommendation  which  I  get 
from  persons  who  are  satisfied  with  the  work  I  have  done  for  them 
determine  the  direction  in  which  I  travel.  Sometimes  I  hear  of  a 
new  neighborhood  in  which  there  is  no  resident  artist  of  ability,  and 
remove  thither  on  speculation.  Sometimes  my  friends  among  the 
picture-dealers  say  a  good  word  on  my  behalf  to  their  rich  custom- 
ers, and  so  pave  the  way  for  me  in  the  large  towns.  Sometimes  my 
prosperous  and  famous  brother-artists,  hearing  of  small  commissions 
which  it  is  not  worth  their  while  to  accept,  mention  my  name,  and 
procure  me  introductions  to  pleasant  country  houses.  Thus  I  get 
on,  now  in  one  way  and  now  in  another,  not  winning  a  reputation 
or  making  a  fortune,  but  happier,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  than  many 
men  who  have  got  both  the  one  and  the  other.  So,  at  least,  I  try  to 
think  now,  though  I  started  in  my  youth  with  as  high  an  ambition 
as  the  best  of  them.  Thank  God,  it  is  not  my  business  here  to  speak 
of  past  times  and  their  disappointments.  A  twinge  of  the  old  hope- 
less heart-ache  comes  over  me  sometimes  still,  when  I  think  of  my 
student  days. 

One  peculiarity  of  my  present  way  of  life  is,  that  it  brings  me 
into  contact  with  all  sorts  of  characters.  I  almost  feel,  by  this  time, 
as  if  I  had  painted  every  civilized  variety  of  the  human  race.  Upon 
the  whole,  my  experience  of  the  world,  rough  as  it  has  been,  has  not 
taught  me  to  think  unkindly  of  my  fellow-creatures.  I  have  certain- 
ly received  such  treatment  at  the  hands  of  some  of  my  sitters  as  I 
could  not  describe  without  saddening  and  shocking  any  kind- 
hearted  reader;  but,  taking  one  year  and  one  place  with  another,  I 
have  cause  to  remember  with  gratitude  and  respect — sometimes  even 


PROLOGUE    TO   THE    FIRST   STORY.  23 

with  friendship  and  a ffc<-t  ion  —a  very  large  proportion  of  the  numer- 
oii<  persons  who  have  employed  me. 

S>me  <>f  the  results  of  my  experience  are  curious  in  a  moral  point 
of  view.  For  example,  I  have  found  women  almost  uniformly  less 
delicate  in  asking  me  about  my  terms,  and  less  generous  in  remu- 
nerating me  for  my  services,  than  men.  On  the  other  hand,  men, 
within  my  knowledge,  are  decidedly  vainer  of  their  personal  at- 
tractions, and  more  \e\ationsly  anxious  to  have  them  done  full  jus- 
tice to  on  canvas,  than  women.  Taking  both  sexes  together,  I  have 
found  young  people,  for  the  most  part,  more  gentle,  more  reasonable, 
and  more  considerate  than  old.  And,  summing  up,  in  a  general 
way.  my  experience  of  different  ranks  (which  extends,  let  me  premise, 
nil  the  way  down  from  peers  to  publicans),  I  have  met  with  most  of 
my  formal  and  ungracious  receptions  among  rich  people  of  uncertain 
social  standing:  the  highest  classes  and  the  lowest  among  my  em- 
ployers almost  always  contrive— in  widely  different  ways,  of  course, 
to  make  me  feel  at  home  as  soon  as  I  enter  their  houses. 

The  one  great  obstacle  that  I  have  to  contend  against  in  the  prac- 
tice of  my  profession  is  not,  as  some  persons  may  imagine,  the  diffi- 
culty of  making  my  sitters  keep  their  heads  still  while  I  paint  them, 
but  the  difficulty  of  getting  them  to  preserve  the  natural  look  and 
the  every-day  peculiarities  of  dress  and  manner.  People  will  assume 
an  expression,  will  brush  up  their  hair,  will  correct  any  little  charac- 
teristic carelessness  in  their  apparel — will,  in  short,  when  they  want 
to  have  their  likenesses  taken,  look  as  if  they  were  sitting  for  their 
pictures.  If  I  paint  them,  under  these  artificial  circumstances,  I  fail 
of  course  to  present  them  in  their  habitual  aspect;  and  my  portrait, 
as  a  necessary  consequence,  disappoints  every  body,  the  sitter  always 
included.  When  we  wish  to  judge  of  a  man's  character  by  his 
handwriting,  we  want  his  customary  scrawl  dashed  off  with  his 
common  workaday  pen.  not  his  best  small-text,  traced  laboriously 
with  the  finest  procurable  crow-quill  point.  So  it  is  with  portrait- 
painting,  which  is.  after  all.  nothing  but  a  right  reading  of  the  ex- 
ternals of  character  re< -o^ni/ably  presented  to  the  view  of  others. 

Experience,  after  repeated  trials,  has  proved  to  me  that  the  only 
way  of  getting  sitters  who  persist  in  assuming  a  set  look  to  resume 
their  habitual  expression,  is  to  lead  them  into  talking  about  some 
subject  in  which  they  are  greatly  interested.  If  I  can  only  beguile 
them  into  speaking  earnestly,  no  matter  on  what  topic,  I  am  sure  of 
recovering  their  natural  expression  :  sure  of  seeing  all  the  little 
precious  every-day  peculiarities  of  the  man  or  woman  peep  out.  one 
after  another,  quite  unawares.  The  long,  maundering  stories  about 
nothing,  the  wearisome  recitals  of  petty  grievances,  the  local  anec- 
dotes unrelieved  by  the  faintest  suspicion  of  any  thing  like  general 
interest,  which  I  have  been  condemned  to  hear,  as  a  consequence  of 


24  AFTER   DARK. 

thawing  the  ice  off  the  features  of  formal  sitters  by  the  method  just 
described,  would  fill  hundreds  of  volumes,  and  promote  the  repose 
of  thousands  of  readers.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  have  suffered  under 
the  tediousness  of  the  many,  I  have  not  been  without  my  compen- 
sating gains  from  the  wisdom  and  experience  of  the  few.  To  some 
of  my  sitters  I  have  been  indebted  for  information  which  has  en- 
larged my  mind — to  some  for  advice  which  has  lightened  my  heart 
— to  some  for  narratives  of  strange  adventure  which  riveted  my  at- 
tention at  the  time,  which  have  served  to  interest  and  amuse  my 
fireside  circle  for  many  years  past,  and  which  are  now,  I  would  fain 
hope,  destined  to  make  kind  friends  for  me  among  a  wider  audience 
than  any  that  I  have  yet  addressed. 

Singularly  enough,  almost  all  the  best  stories  that  I  have  heard 
from  my  sitters  have  been  told  by  accident.  I  only  remember  two 
cases  in  which  a  story  was  volunteered  to  me ;  and,  although  I  have 
often  tried  the  experiment,  I  can  not  call  to  mind  even  a  single  in- 
stance in  which  leading  questions  (as  the  lawyers  call  them)  on  my 
part,  addressed  to  a  sitter,  ever  produced  any  result  worth  record- 
ing. Over  and  over  again,  I  have  been  disastrously  successful  in 
encouraging  dull  people  to  weary  me.  But  the  clever  people  who 
have  something  interesting  to  say,  seem,  so  far  as  I  have  observed 
them,  to  acknowledge  no  other  stimulant  than  chance.  For  every 
story  which  I  purpose  including  in  the  present  collection,  except- 
ing one,  I  have  been  indebted,  in  the  first  instance,  to  the  capricious 
influence  of  the  same  chance.  Something  my  sitter  has  seen  about 
me,  something  I  have  remarked  in  my  sitter,  or  in  the  room  in  which 
I  take  the  likeness,  or  in  the  neighborhood  through  which  I  pass 
on  my  way  to  work,  has  suggested  the  necessary  association,  or  has 
started  the  right  train  of  recollections,  and  then  the  story  appeared 
to  begin  of  its  own  accord.  Occasionally,  the  most  casual  notice, 
on  my  part,  of  some  very  unpromising  object  has  smoothed  the  way 
for  the  relation  of  a  long  and  interesting  narrative.  I  first  heard 
one  of  the  most  dramatic  of  the  stories  that  will  be  presented  in  this 
book,  merely  through  being  carelessly  inquisitive  to  know  the  his- 
tory of  a  stuffed  poodle-dog. 

It  is  thus  not  without  reason  that  I  lay  some  stress  on  the  desira- 
bleness of  prefacing  each  one  of  the  following  narratives  by  a  brief 
account  of  the  curious  manner  in  which  I  became  possessed  of  it. 
As  to  my  capacity  for  repeating  these  stories  correctly,  I  can  answer 
for  it  that  my  memory  may  be  trusted.  I  may  claim  it  as  a  merit, 
because  it  is  after  all  a  mechanical  one,  that  I  forget  nothing,  and 
that  I  can  call  long-passed  conversations  and  events  as  readily  to  my 
recollection  as  if  they  had  happened  but  a  few  weeks  ago.  Of  two 
things  at  least  I  feel  tolerably  certain  beforehand,  in  meditating 
over  the  contents  of  this  book  :  First,  that  I  can  repeat  correctly  all 


PROLOGUE   TO   T1JK    FIRST   STORY.  25 

tliat  I  have  heard;  and,  secondly,  that  I  have  never  missed  any 
tiling  worth  hearing  when  my  sitters  were  addressing  me  on  an  in- 
teresting subject.  Although  I  can  not  take  the  lead  in  talking 
while  I  am  engaged  in  painting,  I  can  listen  while  others  speak, 
and  work  all  the  better  for  it. 

So  much  in  the  way  of  general  preface  to  the  pages  for  which  I 
am  about  to  ask  the  reader's  attention.  Let  me  now  advance  to 
particulars,  and  describe  how  I  came  to  hear  the  first  story  in  the 
present  collection.  I  begin  with  it  because  it  is  the  story  that  I 
have  oftenest  "  rehearsed,"  to  borrow  a  phrase  from  the  stage. 
Wherever  I  go,  I  am  sooner  or  later  sure  to  tell  it.  Only  last  night, 
I  was  persuaded  into  repeating  it  once  more  by  the  inhabitants  of 
the  farm-house  in  which  I  am  now  staying. 

Not  many  years  ago,  on  returning  from  a  short  holiday  visit  to  a 
friend  settled  in  Paris,  I  found  professional  letters  awaiting  me  at 
my  agent '>  in  London,  which  required  my  immediate  presence  in 
Liverpool.  Without  stopping  to  unpack,  I  proceeded  by  the  first 
conveyance  to  my  new  destination ;  and,  calling  at  the  pictuie- 
dealer's  shop,  where  portrait-painting  engagements  were  received 
for  me,  found  to  my  great  satisfaction  that  I  had  remunerative  em- 
ployment in  prospect,  in  and  about  Liverpool,  for  at  least  two  months 
to  come.  I  was  putting  up  my  letters  in  high  spirits,  and  was  just 
leaving  the  picture-dealer's  shop  to  look  out  for  comfortable  lodg- 
ings, when  I  was  met  at  the  door  by  the  landlord  of  one  of  the 
largest  hotels  in  Liverpool — an  old  acquaintance  whom  I  had  known 
as  manager  of  a  tavern  in  London  in  my  student  days. 

u  Mr.  Kerby  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  great  astonishment.  "  What  an 
unexpected  meeting!  the  last  man  in  the  world  whom  I  expected 
to  see,  and  yet  the  very  man  whose  services  I  want  to  make  use  of!" 

"  What,  more  work  for  me  ?"  said  I ;  "  are  all  the  people  in  Liv 
erpool  going  to  have  their  portraits  painted  ?" 

"I  only  know  of  one,"  replied  the  landlord,  "a  gentleman  staying 
at  my  hotel,  who  wants  a  chalk  drawing  done  of  him.  I  was  on  my 
way  here  to  inquire  for  any  artist  whom  our  picture-dealing  friend 
could  recommend.  How  glad  I  am  that  I  met  you  before  I  had 
committed  myself  to  employing  a  stranger!" 

"  Is  this  likeness  wanted  at  once  ?"  I  asked,  thinking  of  the  num- 
ber of  engagements  that  I  had  already  got  in  my  pocket. 

"  Immediately — to-day — this  very  hour,  if  possible,"  said  the  land- 
lord. "  Mr.  Faulkner,  the  gentleman  I  am  speaking  of,  was  to  have 
sailed  yesterday  for  the  Brazils  from  this  place;  but  the  wind  shift- 
ed last  night  to  the  wrong  quarter,  and  he  came  ashore  again  this 
morning.  He  may  of  course  be  detained  here  for  some  time ;  but 
he  may  also  be  called  on  board  ship  at  half  an  hour's  notice,  if  the 

1* 


26  AFTER    DARK. 

wind  shifts  back  again  in  the  right  direction.  This  uncertainty 
makes  it  a  matter  of  importance  that  the  likeness  should  be  begun 
immediately.  Undertake  it  if  you  possibly  can,  for  Mr.  Faulkner  is 
a  liberal  gentleman,  who  is  sure  to  give  you  your  own  terms." 

I  reflected  for  a  minute  or  two.  The  portrait  was  only  wanted 
in  chalk,  and  would  not  take  long ;  besides,  I  might  finish  it  in  the 
evening,  if  my  other  engagements  pressed  hard  upon  me  in  the  day- 
time. Why  not  leave  my  luggage  at  the  picture-dealer's,  put  off 
looking  for  lodgings  till  night,  and  secure  the  new  commission 
boldly  by  going  back  at  once  with  the  landlord  to  the  hotel  ?  I 
decided  on  following  this  course  almost  as  soon  as  the  idea  oc- 
curred to  me — put  my  chalks  in  my  pocket,  and  a  sheet  of  drawing- 
paper  in  the  first  of  my  port-folios  that  came  to  hand — and  so  pre- 
sented myself  before  Mr.  Faulkner,  ready  to  take  his  likeness,  liter- 
ally at  five  minutes'  notice. 

I  found  him  a  very  pleasant,  intelligent  man,  young  and  hand- 
some. He  had  been  a  great  traveler;  had  visited  all  the  wonders 
of  the  East ;  and  was  now  about  to  explore  the  wilds  of  the  vast 
South  American  Continent.  Thus  much  he  told  me  good-humor- 
edly  and  unconstrainedly  while  I  was  preparing  my  drawing  ma- 
terials. 

As  soon  as  I  had  put  him  in  the  right  light  and  position,  and  had 
seated  myself  opposite  to  him,  he  changed  the  subject  of  conversa- 
tion, and  asked  me,  a  little  confusedly  as  I  thought,  if  it  was  not  a 
customary  practice  among  portrait-painters  to  gloss  over  the  faults 
in  their  sitters'  faces,  and  to  make  as  much  as  possible  of  any  good 
points  which  their  features  might  possess. 

"  Certainly,"  I  answered.  "  You  have  described  the  whole  art 
and  mystery  of  successful  portrait-painting  in  a  few  words." 

"  May  I  beg,  then,"  said  he,  "  that  you  will  depart  from  the  usual 
practice  in  my  case,  and  draw  me  with  all  my  defects,  exactly  as  I 
am  ?  The  fact  is,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  the  like- 
ness you  are  now  preparing  to  take  is  intended  for  my  mother.  My 
roving  disposition  makes  me  a  great  anxiety  to  her,  and  she  parted 
from  me  this  last  time  very  sadly  and  unwillingly.  I  don't  know 
how  the  idea  came  into  my  head,  but  it  struck  me  this  morning 
that  I  could  not  better  employ  the  time,  while  I  was  delayed  here 
on  shore,  than  by  getting  my  likeness  done  to  send  to  her  as  a  keep- 
sake. She  has  no  portrait  of  me  since  I  was  a  child,  and  she  is  sure 
to  value  a  drawing  of  me  more  than  any  thing  else  I  could  send  to 
her.  I  only  trouble  you  with  this  explanation  to  prove  that  I  am 
really  sincere  in  my  wish  to  be  drawn  unflatteringly,  exactly  as  I 
am." 

Secretly  respecting  and  admiring  him  for  what  he  had  just  said, 
I  promised  that  his  directions  should  be  implicitly  followed,  and 


PROLOGUE   TO   THE   FIRST  STORY.  27 

l>egan  to  work  iimm  -diatoly.  He  fore  I  had  pursued  my  occupation 
for  ten  minutes,  the  conversation  began  to  Hag,  ami  the  usual  ob- 
stacle to  my  success  with  a  sitter  gradually  set  itself  up  between  us. 
Quito  uncon-ciously,  of  course,  Mr.  Faulkner  stiffened  his  neck,  shut 
his  mouth,  and  contracted  his  eyebrows — evidently  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  \\a-  facilitating  the  process  of  taking  his  portrait 
l>y  making  his  face  as  like  a  lifeless  mask  as  possible.  All  traces  of 
his  natural  animated  expression  were  fast  disappearing,  and  he  was 
beginning  to  change  into  a  heavy  and  rather  melancholy-looking 
man. 

This  complete  alteration  was  of  no  great  consequence  so  long  as 
I  was  only  engaged  in  drawing  the  outline  of  his  face  and  the  gen- 
eral form  of  his  features.  I  accordingly  worked  on  doggedly  for 
more  than  an  hour — then  left  off  to  point  my  chalks  again,  and  to 
give  my  sitter  a  few  minutes'  rest.  Thus  far  the  likeness  had  not 
wittered  through  Mr.  Faulkner's  unfortunate  notion  of  the  right  way 
of  sitting  for  his  portrait ;  but  the  time  of  difficulty,  as  I  well  knew, 
wa^  to  come.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  think  of  putting  any  ex- 
pn-ssion  into  the  drawing  unless  I  could  contrive  some  means,  when 
he  resumed  his  chair,  of  making  him  look  like  himself  again.  M  I 
will  talk  to  him  about  foreign  parts,"  thought  I,  "and  try  if  I  can't 
make  him  forget  that  he  is  sitting  for  his  picture  in  that  way." 

"While  I  was  pointing  my  chalks,  Mr.  Faulkner  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room.  He  chanced  to  see  the  port-folio  I  had  brought 
with  me  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  asked  if  there  were  any 
sketches  in  it.  I  told  him  thefe  were  a  few  which  I  had  made  dur- 
ing my  recent  stay  in  Paris.  "  In  Paris  ?"  he  repeated,  with  a  look 
of  interest ;  "  may  I  see  them  ?" 

I  gave  him  the  permission  he  asked  as  a  matter  of  course.  Sitting 
down,  he  took  the  port -folio  on  his  knee,  arid  began  to  look  through 
it.  He  turned  over  the  first  five  sketches  rapidly  enough ;  but 
when  he  came  to  the  sixth,  I  saw  his  face  flush  directly,  and  ob- 
served that  he  took  the  drawing  out  of  the  port-folio,  carried  it  to 
the  window,  and  remained  silently  absorbed  in  the  contemplation 
of  it  for  full  five  minutes.  After  that,  he  turned  round  to  me,  and 
asked  very  anxiously  if  I  had  any  objection  to  part  with  that 
sketch. 

It  was  the  least  interesting  drawing  of  the  collection — merely  a 
view  in  one  of  the  streets  running  by  the  backs  of  the  houses  in  the 
Palais  Royal.  Some  four  or  five  of  these  houses  were  comprised  in 
the  view,  which  was  of  no  particular  use  to  me  in  any  way ;  and 
which  was  too  valueless,  as  a  work  of  art,  for  me  to  think  of  selling 
it.  I  begged  his  acceptance  of  it  at  once.  He  thanked  me  quite 
warmly ;  and  then,  seeing  that  I  looked  a  little  surprised  at  the  odd 
selection  he  had  made  from  my  sketches,  laughingly  asked  me  if  I 


28  AFTER   DARK. 

could  guess  why  he  had  been  so  anxious  to  become  possessed  of 
the  view  which  I  had  given  him  ? 

"  Probably,"  I  answered, "  there  is  some  remarkable  historical  as- 
sociation connected  with  that  street  at  the  back  of  the  Palais  Royal, 
of  which  I  am  ignorant." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Faulkner ;  "  at  least  none  that  /  know  of.  The 
only  association  connected  with  the  place  in  my  mind  is  a  purely  per- 
sonal association.  Look  at  this  house  in  your  drawing — the  house 
with  the  water-pipe  running  down  it  from  top  to  bottom.  I  once 
passed  a  night  there — a  night  I  shall  never  forget  to  the  day  of  my 
death.  I  have  had  some  awkward  traveling  adventures  in  my  time ; 
but  that  adventure — !  Well,  never  mind,  suppose  we  begin  the  sit- 
ting. I  make  but  a  bad  return  for  your  kindness  in  giving  me  the 
sketch  by  thus  wasting  your  time  in  mere  talk." 

"  Come !  come !"  thought  I,  as  he  went  back  to  the  sitter's  chair, 
"  I  shall  see  your  natural  expression  on  your  face  if  I  can  only  get 
you  to  talk  about  that  adventure."  It  was  easy  enough  to  lead  him 
in  the  right  direction.  At  the  first  hint  from  me,  he  returned  to  the 
subject  of  the  house  in  the  back  street.  Without,  I  hope,  showing 
any  undue  curiosity,  I  contrived  to  let  him  see  that  I  felt  a  deep  in- 
terest in  every  thing  he  now  said.  After  two  or  three  preliminary 
hesitations,  he  at  last,  to  my  great  joy,  fairly  started  on  the  narrative 
of  his  adventure.  In  the  interest  of  his  subject  he  soon  completely 
forgot  that  he  was  sitting  for  his  portrait — the  very  expression  that 
I  wanted  came  over  his  face — and  my  drawing  proceeded  toward 
completion,  in  the  right  direction,  and  to  the  best  purpose.  At  ev- 
ery fresh  touch  I  felt  more  and  more  certain  that  I  was  now  getting 
the  better  of  my  grand  difficulty;  and  I  enjoyed  the  additional 
gratification  of  having  my  work  lightened  by  the  recital  of  a  true 
story,  which  possessed,  in  my  estimation,  all  the  excitement  of  the 
most  exciting  romance. 

This,  as  I  recollect  it,  is  how  Mr.  Faulkner  told  me  his  adventure : 


A  TEBUIBLY   STRANGK   BBD.  29 


THE  TRAVELER'S  STORY 

or 

A  TERRIBLY  STRANGE  BED. 

SHOKTLY  after  my  education  at  college  was  finished,  I  happened 
to  be  staying  at  Paris  with  an  English  friend.  We  were  both  young 
men  then,  and  lived,  I  am  afraid,  rather  a  wild  life,  in  the  delightful 
city  of  our  sojourn.  One  night  we  were  idling  about  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Palais  Royal,  doubtful  to  what  amusement  we  should 
next  betake  ourselves.  My  friend  proposed  a  visit  to  Frascati's; 
but  his  suggestion  was  not  to  my  taste.  I  knew  Frascati's,  as  the 
French  saying  is,  by  heart ;  had  lost  and  won  plenty  of  five-franc 
pieces  there,  merely  for  amusement's  sake,  until  it  was  amusement 
no  longer,  and  was  thoroughly  tired,  in  fact,  of  all  the  ghastly  re- 
spectabilities of  such  a  social  anomaly  as  a  respectable  gambling- 
house.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,"  said  I  to  my  friend, "  let  us  go  some- 
where where  we  can  see  a  little  genuine,  blackguard,  poverty-strick- 
en gaming,  witli  no  false  gingerbread  glitter  thrown  over  it  at  all. 
Let  us  get  away  from  fashionable  Frascati's,  to  a  house  where  they 
don't  mind  letting  in  a  man  with  a  ragged  coat,  or  a  man  with  no 
coat,  ragged  or  otherwise."  "  Very  well,"  said  my  friend,  "  we 
needn't  go  out  of  the  Palais  Royal  to  find  the  sort  of  company  you 
want.  Here's  the  place  just  l>efore  us ;  as  blackguard  a  place,  by 
all  report,  as  you  could  possibly  wish  to  see."  In  another  minute 
we  arrived  at  the  door,  and  entered  the  house,  the  back  of  which 
you  have  drawn  in  your  sketch. 

When  we  got  up  stairs,  and  had  left  our  hats  and  sticks  with  the 
door-keeper,  we  were  admitted  into  the  chief  gambling-room.  We 
did  not  find  many  people  assembled  there.  But,  few  as  the  men 
were  who  looked  up  at  us  on  our  entrance,  they  were  all  types — 
lamentably  true  types — of  their  respective  classes. 

We  had  come  to  see  blackguards ;  but  these  men  were  something 
worse.  There  is  a  comic  side,  more  or  less  appreciable,  in  all  black- 
guardism— here  there  was  nothing  but  tragedy — mute,  weird  trag- 
edy. The  quiet  in  the  room  was  horrible.  The  thin,  haggard,  long- 
haired young  man,  whose  sunken  eyes  fiercely  watched  the  turning 
up  of  the  cards,  never  spoke ;  the  flabby,  fat-faced,  pimply  player, 
who  pricked  his  piece  of  pasteboard  perse veringly,  to  register  how 


30  AFTER   DARK. 

often  black  won,  and  how  often  red — never  spoke ;  the  dirty,  wrin- 
kled old  man,  with  the  vulture  eyes  and  the  darned  great-coat,  who 
had  lost  his  last  sou,  and  still  looked  on  desperately,  after  he  could 
play  no  longer — never  spoke.  Even  the  voice  of  the  croupier  sound- 
ed as  if  it  were  strangely  dulled  and  thickened  in  the  atmosphere  of 
the  room.  I  had  entered  the  place  to  laugh,  bat  the  spectacle  before 
me  was  something  to  weep  over.  I  soon  found  it  necessary  to  take 
refuge  in  excitement  from  the  depression  of  spirits  which  was  fast 
stealing  on  me.  Unfortunately  I  sought  the  nearest  excitement,  by 
going  to  the  table  and  beginning  to  play.  Still  more  unfortunate- 
ly, as  the  event  will  show,  I  won — won  prodigiously ;  won  incredi- 
bly ;  won  at  such  a  rate  that  the  regular  players  at  the  table  crowd- 
ed round  me;  and  staring  at  my  stakes  with  hungry,  superstitious 
eyes,  whispered  to  one  another  that  the  English  stranger  was  going 
to  break  the  bank. 

The  game  was  Rouge  et  Noir.  I  had  played  at  it  in  every  city  in 
Europe,  without,  however,  the  care  or  the  wish  to  study  the  Theory 
of  Chances — that  philosopher's  stone  of  all  gamblers !  And  a  gam- 
bler, in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  I  had  never  been.  I  was  heart- 
whole  from  the  corroding  passion  for  play.  My  gaining  was  a  more 
idle  amusement.  I  never  resorted  to  it  by  necessity,  because  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  want  money.  I  never  practiced  it  so  incessant- 
ly as  to  lose  more  than  I  could  afford,  or  to  gain  more  than  I  could 
coolly  pocket  without  being  thrown  off  my  balance  by  my  good 
luck.  In  short,  I  had  hitherto  frequented  gambling-tables—just  us 
I  frequented  ball-rooms  and  opera-houses — because  they  amused  me, 
and  because  I  had  nothing  better  to  do  with  my  leisure  hours. 

But  on  this  occasion  it  was  very  different — now,  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life,  I  felt  what  the  passion  for  play  really  was.  My  success 
first  bewildered,  and  then,  in  the  most  literal  meaning  of  the  word, 
intoxicated  me.  Incredible  as  it  may  appear,  it  is  nevertheless  true, 
that  I  only  lost  when  I  attempted  to  estimate  chances,  and  played 
according  to  previous  calculation.  If  I  left  every  thing  to  luck, 
and  staked  without  any  care  or  consideration,  I  was  sure  to  win — 
to  win  in  the  face  of  every  recognized  probability  in  favor  of  the 
bank.  At  first  some  of  the  men  present  ventured  their  money  safe- 
ly enough  on  my  color ;  but  I  speedily  increased  my  stakes  to  sums 
which  they  dared  not  risk.  One  after  another  they  left  off  playing, 
and  breathlessly  looked  on  at  my  game. 

Still,  time  after  time,  I  staked  higher  and  higher,  and  still  won. 
The  excitement  in  the  room  rose  to  fever  pitch.  The  silence  was 
interrupted  by  a  deep  -  muttered  chorus  of  oaths  and  exclamations 
in  different  languages,  every  time  the  gold  was  shoveled  across  to 
my  side  of  the  table — even  the  imperturbable  croupier  dashed  his 
rake  on  the  floor  in  a  (French)  fury  of  astonishment  at  my  success. 


A   TEKKIHI.V    STRANGE    BED.  81 

But  one  man  present  preserved  his  self- possession,  and  that  man 
was  my  friend.  He  came  to  my  side,  and  whispering  in  English, 
begged  me  to  leave  the  place,  satisfied  with  what  I  had  already 
gained.  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  repeated  his 
warnings  and  entreaties  several  times,  and  only  left  me  and  went 
away,  after  I  had  rejected  his  advice  (I  was  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses gambling  drunk)  in  terms  which  rendered  it  impossible  for 
him  to  uddre>>  me  again  that  night. 

Shortly  after  he  had  gone,  a  hoarse  voice  behind  me  cried,  "Per- 
mit me,  my  dear  sir — permit  me  to  restore  to  their  proper  place  two 
napoleons  which  you  have  dropped.  Wonderful  luck,  sir !  I  pledge 
you  my  word  of  honor,  as  an  old  soldier,  in  the  course  of  my  long 
experience  in  this  sort  of  thing,  I  never  saw  such  luck  as  yours — 
never!  Go  on,  sir — Sacrt  mitte  bombes!  Go  on  boldly,  and  break 
the  bank  !" 

I  turned  round  and  saw,  nodding  and  smiling  at  me  with  inveter- 
ate civility,  a  tall  man,  dressed  in  a  frogged  and  braided  surtout. 

If  I  had  been  in  my  senses,  I  should  have  considered  him,  person- 
ally, as  being  rather  a  suspicious  specimen  of  an  old  soldier.  He 
had  goggling,  blood-shot  eyes,  mangy  mustaches,  and  a  broken  nose. 
Hi-  voiee  IK  trayed  a  barrack -room  intonation  of  the  worst  order, 
and  he  had  the  dirtiest  pair  of  hands  I  ever  saw — even  in  France. 
These  little  personal  peculiarities  exercised,  however,  no  repelling 
influence  on  me.  In  the  mad  excitement,  the  reckless  triumph  of 
that  moment,  I  was  ready  to  "  fraternize  "  with  any  body  who  en- 
couraged me  in  my  game.  I  accepted  the  old  soldier's  offered  pinch 
of  snuff;  clapped  him  on  the  back,  and  swore  he  was  the  honestest 
fellow  in  the  world — the  most  glorious  relic  of  the  Grand  Army 
that  I  had  ever  met  with.  "  Go  on  !"  cried  my  military  friend,  snap- 
ping his  fingers  in  ecstasy — "  Go  on,  and  win !  Break  the  bank — 
Mill,  t<>nnerrt»!  my  gallant  English  comrade,  break  the  bank  !" 

And  I  did  go  on — went  on  at  such  a  rate,  that  in  another  quarter 
of  an  hour  the  croupier  called  out,  ''Gentlemen,  the  bank  has  dis- 
continued for  to-night/'  All  the  notes,  and  all  the  gold  in  that 
"bank,"  now  lay  in  a  heap  under  my  hands;  the  whole  floating 
capital  of  the  gambling-house  was  waiting  to  pour  into  my  pockets! 

"Tie  up  the  money  in  your  pocket-handkerchief,  my  worthy  sir," 
said  the  old  soldier,  as  I  wildly  plunged  my  hands  into  my  heap  of 
gold.  "  Tie  it  up,  as  we  used  to  tie  up  a  bit  of  dinner  in  the  Grand 
Army;  your  winnings  are  too  heavy  for  any  breeches-pockets  that 
ever  were  sewed.  There!  that's  it — shovel  them  in.  notes  and  all ! 
Credit!  what  luck!  Stop!  another  napoleon  on  the  floor!  Ah! 
mcri  petit  polin»>n  ile  Najwleon  !  have  I  found  thee  at  last  ?  Now 
then,  sir  —  two  tight  double  knots  each  way  with  your  honorable 
permission,  and  the  money's  safe.  Feel  it !  feel  it,  fortunate  sir .' 


32  AFTER   DAKK. 

hard  and  round  as  a  cannon-ball —  Ah,  bah  !  if  they  had  only  fired 
such  cannon-balls  at  us  at  Austerlitz — nom  d>une  pipe!  if  they  only 
had !  And  now,  as  an  ancient  grenadier,  as  an  ex  -  brave  of  the 
French  army,  what  remains  for  me  to  do  ?  I  ask  what?  Simply 
this,  to  entreat  my  valued  English  friend  to  drink  a  bottle  of  Cham- 
pagne with  me,  and  toast  the  goddess  Fortune  in  foaming  goblets 
before  we  part !" 

Excellent  ex-brave !  Convivial  ancient  grenadier !  Champagne 
by  all  means !  An  English  cheer  for  an  old  soldier !  Hurra !  hur- 
ra !  Another  English  cheer  for  the  goddess  Fortune !  Hurra ! 
hurra !  hurra ! 

"  Bravo  !  the  Englishman ;  the  amiable,  gracious  Englishman,  in 
whose  veins  circulates  the  vivacious  blood  of  France !  Another 
glass  ?  Ah,  bah  ! — the  bottle  is  empty  !  Never  mind !  Vive  le  mn  ! 
I,  the  old  soldier,  order  another  bottle,  and  half  a  pound  of  frontons 
with  it !" 

"  No,  no,  ex-brave  ;  never — ancient  grenadier !  Tour  bottle  last 
time ;  my  bottle  this !  Behold  it !  Toast  away  !  The  French  Army ! 
the  great  Napoleon  !  the  present  company  !  the  croupier !  the  hon- 
est croupier's  wife  and  daughters — if  he  has  any  !  the  Ladies  gener- 
ally !  every  body  in  the  world  !" 

By  the  time  the  second  bottle  of  Champagne  was  emptied,  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  been  drinking  liquid  fire — my  brain  seemed  all  aflame. 
No  excess  in  wine  had  ever  had  this  effect  on  me  before  in  my 
life.  Was  it  the  result  of  a  stimulant  acting  upon  my  system 
when  I  was  in  a  highly  excited  state  ?  Was  my  stomach  in  a  par- 
ticularly disordered  condition  ?  Or  was  the  Champagne  amazingly 
strong  ? 

"  Ex-brave  of  the  French  Army !"  cried  I,  in  a  mad  state  of  ex- 
hilaration, "/  am  on  fire  !  how  are  you  ?  You  have  set  me  on  fire ! 
Do  you  hear,  my  hero  of  Austerlitz  ?  Let  us  have  a  third  bottle  of 
Champagne  to  put  the  flame  out !" 

The  old  soldier  wagged  his  head,  rolled  his  goggle-eyes,  until  I 
expected  to  see  them  slip  out  of  their  sockets ;  placed  his  dirty  fore- 
finger by  the  side  of  his  broken  nose  ;  solemnly  ejaculated  "  Coffee !" 
and  immediately  ran  off  into  an  inner  room. 

The  word  pronounced  by  the  eccentric  veteran  seemed  to  have 
a  magical  effect  on  the  rest  of  the  company  present.  With  one  ac- 
cord they  all  rose  to  depart.  Probably  they  had  expected  to  profit 
by  my  intoxication ;  but  finding  that  my  new  friend  was  benevolent- 
ly bent  on  preventing  me  from  getting  dead  drunk,  had  now  aban- 
doned all  hope  of  thriving  pleasantly  on  my  winnings.  Whatever 
their  motive  might  be,  at  any  rate  they  went  away  in  a  body.  When 
the  old  soldier  returned,  and  sat  down  again  opposite  to  me  at  the 
table,  we  had  the  room  to  ourselves.  I  could  see  the  croupier,  in  a 


A  TERRIBLY   STRANGE   BED.  33 

sort  of  vestibule  which  opened  out  of  it,  eating  his  supper  in  soli- 
tude. The  silence  was  now  deeper  than  ever. 

A  sudden  change,  too,  had  come  over  the  "ex -brave."  He  as- 
sumed a  portentously  solemn  look ;  and  when  he  spoke  to  me 
again,  his  speech  was  ornamented  by  no  oaths,  enforced  by  no  fin- 
ger-snapping, enlivened  by  no  apostrophes  or  exclamations. 

••  Listen,  my  dear  sir,"  said  he,  in  mysteriously  confidential  tones 

••  listen  to  an  old  soldier's  advice.  I  have  been  to  the  mistress  of 
the  house  (a  very  charming  woman,  with  a  genius  for  cookery !)  to 
impress  on  her  the  necessity  of  making  us  some  particularly  strong 
and  <food  coffee.  You  must  drink  this  coffee  in  order  to  get  rid  of 
your  little  amiable  exaltation  of  spirits  before  you  think  of  going 
home  —  you  must,  my  good  and  gracious  friend !  With  all  that 
money  to  take  home  to-night,  it  is  a  sacred  duty  to  yourself  to  have 
your  wits  about  you.  You  are  known  to  be  a  winner  to  an  enormous 
extent  by  several  gentlemen  present  to-night,  who,  in  a  certain  point 
of  view,  are  very  worthy  and  excellent  fellows ;  but  they  are  mortal 
men,  my  dear  sir,  and  they  have  their  amiable  weaknesses !  Need 
I  say  more  ?  Ah,  no,  no !  you  understand  me  !  Now,  this  is  what 
you  must  do — send  for  a  cabriolet  when  you  feel  quite  well  again — 
draw  up  all  the  windows  when  you  get  into  it — and  tell  the  driver 
to  take  you  home  only  through  the  large  and  well-lighted  thorough- 
fares. Do  this ;  and  you  and  your  money  will  be  safe.  Do  this ; 
and  to-morrow  you  will  thank  an  old  soldier  for  giving  you  a  word 
of  honest  advice." 

Just  as  the  ex-brave  ended  his  oration  in  very  lachrymose  tones, 
the  coffee  came  in,  ready  poured  out  in  two  cups.  My  attentive 
friend  handed  me  one  of  the  cups  with  a  bow.  I  was  parched  with 
thirst,  and  drank  it  off  at  a  draught.  Almost  instantly  afterward,  I 
was  seized  with  a  fit  of  giddiness,  and  felt  more  completely  intoxi- 
cated than  ever.  The  room  whirled  round  and  round  furiously; 
the  old  soldier  seemed  to  be  regularly  bobbing  up  and  down  before 
me  like  the  piston  of  a  steam-engine.  I  was  half  deafened  by  a  vio- 
lent singing  in  my  ears;  a  feeling  of  utter  bewilderment,  helpless- 
nrss.  idiocy,  overcame  me.  I  rose  from  my  chair,  holding  on  by  the 
table  to  keep  my  balance ;  and  stammered  out  that  I  felt  dreadfully 
unwell— so  unwell  that  I  did  not  know  how  I  was  to  get  home. 

"My  dear  friend,"  answered  the  old  soldier — and  even  his  voice 
seemed  to  be  bobbing  up  and  down  as  he  spoke — "my  dear  friend, 
it  would  be  madness  to  go  home  in  your  state;  you  would  be  sure 
to  lose  your  money;  you  might  be  robbed  and  murdered  with  the 
greatest  ease.  /  am  going  to  sleep  here :  do  you  sleep  here,  too — 
they  make  up  capital  beds  in  this  house  —  take  one;  sleep  off  the 
effects  of  the  wine,  and  go  home  safely  with  your  winnings  to-mor- 
row— to-morrow,  in  broad  daylight." 


34  AFTER  DARK. 

I  had  but  two  ideas  left :  one,  that  I  must  never  let  go  hold  of 
my  handkerchief  full  of  money ;  the  other,  that  I  must  lie  down 
somewhere  immediately,  and  fall  off  into  a  comfortable  sleep.  So  i 
agreed  to  the  proposal  about  the  bed,  and  took  the  offered  arm  of 
the  old  soldier,  carrying  my  money  with  my  disengaged  hand.  Pre- 
ceded by  the  croupier,  we  passed  along  some  passages  and  up  a 
flight  of  stairs  into  the  bedroom  which  I  was  to  occupy.  The  ex- 
brav«  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand,  proposed  that  we  should 
breakfast  together,  and  then,  followed  by  the  croupier,  left  me  for 
the  night. 

I  ran  to  the  wash-hand  stand;  drank  some  of  the  water  in  my 
jug;  poured  the  rest  out,  and  plunged  my  face  into  it;  then  sat 
down  in  a  chair  and  tried  to  compose  myself.  I  soon  felt  better. 
The  change  for  my  lungs,  from  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  the  gambling- 
room  to  the  cool  air  of  the  apartment  I  now  occupied,  the  almost 
equally  refreshing  change  for  my  eyes,  from  the  glaring  gas-lights 
of  the  "  salon  "  tc  the  dim,  quiet  flicker  of  one  bedroom-candle,  aid- 
ed wonderfully  the  restorative  effects  of  cold  water.  The  giddiness 
left  me,  and  I  began  to  feel  a  little  like  a  reasonable  being  again. 
My  first  thought  was  of  the  risk  of  sleeping  all  night  in  a  gambling- 
house  ;  my  second,  of  the  still  greater  risk  of  trying  to  get  out  after 
the  house  was  closed,  and  of  going  home  alone  at  night  through 
the  streets  of  Paris  with  a  large  sum  of  money  about  me.  I  had 
slept  in  worse  places  than  this  on  my  travels;  so  I  determined  to 
lock,  bolt,  and  barricade  my  door,  and  take  my  chance  till  the  next 
morning. 

Accordingly,  I  secured  myself  against  all  intrusion ;  looked  under 
the  bed,  and  into  the  cupboard ;  tried  the  fastening  of  the  win- 
dow ;  and  then,  satisfied  that  I  had  taken  every  proper  precaution, 
pulled  off  my  upper  clothing,  put  my  light,  which  was  a  dim  one, 
on  the  hearth  among  a  feathery  litter  of  wood-ashes,  and  got  into 
bed,  with  the  handkerchief  full  of  money  under  my  pillow. 

I  soon  felt  not  only  that  I  could  not  go  to  sleep,  but  that  I  could 
not  even  close  my  eyes.  I  was  wide  awake,  and  in  a  high  fever. 
Every  nerve  in  my  body  trembled — every  one  of  my  senses  seemed 
to  be  preternaturally  sharpened.  I  tossed  and  rolled,  and  tried  ev- 
ery kind  of  position,  and  perseveringly  sought  out  the  cold  cor- 
ners of  the  bed,  and  all  to  no  purpose.  Now  I  thrust  my  arms 
over  the  clothes ;  now  I  poked  them  under  the  clothes ;  now  I  vio- 
lently shot  my  legs  straight  out  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  bed ; 
now  I  convulsively  coiled  them  up  as  near  my  chin  as  they  would 
go ;  now  I  shook  out  my  crumpled  pillow,  changed  it  to  the  cool 
side,  patted  it  flat,  and  lay  down  quietly  on  my  back ;  now  I  fierce- 
ly doubled  it  in  two,  set  it  up  on  end,  thrust  it  against  the  board 
of  the  bed,  and  tried  a  sitting  posture.  Every  effort  was  in  vain; 


A  TERRIBLY    STRANGE    BED.  35 

I  groaned  with  vexation  as  I  felt  that  I  was  in  for  a  sleepless 
night. 

What  could  I  do?  I  had  no  book  to  read.  And  yet,  unless  I 
found  out  some  method  of  diverting  my  mind,  I  felt  certain  that  I 
was  in  the  condition  to  imagine  all  sorts  of  horrors;  to  rack  my 
brain  with  forebodings  of  every  possible  and  impossible  danger;  in 
short,  to  pass  the  uight  in  suffering  all  conceivable  varieties  of  nerv- 
ous terror. 

I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow,  and  looked  about  the  room — which 
was  brightened  by  a  lovely  moonlight  pouring  straight  through  the 
window  —  to  see  if  it  contained  any  pictures  or  ornaments  that  I 
could  at  all  clearly  distinguish.  While  my  eyes  wandered  from  wall 
to  wall,  a  remembrance  of  Le  Maistre's  delightful  little  book,  "Voy- 
age autour  de  ma  Chambre,1'  occurred  to  me.  I  resolved  to  imitate 
the  French  author,  and  find  occupation  and  amusement  enough  to 
relieve  the  tedium  of  my  wakefulness,  by  making  a  mental  inventory 
of  every  article  of  furniture  I  could  see,  and  by  following  up  to  their 
sources  the  multitude  of  associations  which  even  a  chair,  a  table,  or 
a  wash-hand  stand  may  be  made  to  call  forth. 

In  the  nervous  unsettled  state  of  my  mind  at  that  moment,  I 
found  it  much  easier  to  make  my  inventory  than  to  make  my  reflec- 
tions, and  thereupon  soon  gave  up  all  hope  of  thinking  in  Le  Mais- 
tre's fanciful  track — or,  indeed,  of  thinking  at  all.  I  looked  about 
the  room  at  the  different  articles  of  furniture,  and  did  nothing  more. 

There  was.  first,  the  bed  I  was  lying  in;  a  four-post  bed,  of  all 
things  in  the  world  to  meet  with  in  Paris — yes,  a  thorough  clumsy 
British  four-poster,  with  a  regular  top  lined  with  chintz— the  regular 
fringed  valance  all  round  —  the  regular  stifling,  unwholesome  cur- 
tains, which  I  remembered  having  mechanically  drawn  back  against 
the  posts  without  particularly  noticing  the  bed  when  I  first  got  into 
the  room.  Then  there  was  the  marble-topped  wash-hand  stand,  from 
which  the  water  I  had  spilled,  in  my  hurry  to  pour  it  out,  was  still 
dripping,  slowly  and  more  slowly,  on  to  the  brick  floor.  Then  two 
small  chairs,  with  my  coat,  waistcoat,  and  trowsers  flung  on  them. 
Then  a  large  elbow-chair  covered  with  dirty  white  dimity,  with  my 
cravat  and  shirt  collar  thrown  over  the  back.  Then  a  chest  of 
drawers  with  two  of  the  brass  handles  off",  and  a  tawdry,  broken  china 
inkstand  placed  on  it  by  way  of  ornament  for  the  top.  Then  the 
dressing -table,  adorned  by  a  very  small  looking-glass,  and  a  very 
large  pincushion.  Then  the  window — an  unusually  large  window. 
Then  a  dark  old  picture,  which  the  feeble  candle  dimly  showed  me. 
It  was  the  picture  of  a  fellow  in  a  high  Spanish  hat,  crowned  with 
a  plume  of  towering  feathers.  A  swarthy,  sinister  ruffian,  looking 
upward,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  looking  intently  up- 
ward— it  might  be  at  some  tall  gallows  at  which  he  was  going  to 


36  AFTER   DARK. 

be  hanged.     At  any  rate,  he  had  the  appearance  of  thoroughly  de- 
serving it. 

This  picture  put  a  kind  of  constraint  upon  me  to  look  upward  too 
— at  the  top  of  the  bed.  It  was  a  gloomy  and  not  an  interesting 
object,  and  I  looked  back  at  the  picture.  I  counted  the  feathers 
in  the  man's  hat — they  stood  out  in  relief — three  white,  two  green. 
I  observed  the  crown  of  his  hat,  which  was  of  a  conical  shape,  ac- 
cording to  the  fashion  supposed  to  have  been  favored  by  Guido 
Fawkes.  I  wondered  what  he  was  looking  up  at.  It  couldn't  be 
at  the  stars ;  such  a  desperado  was  neither  astrologer  nor  astron- 
omer. It  must  be  at  the  high  gallows,  and  he  was  going  to  be 
hanged  presently.  Would  the  executioner  come  into  possession  of 
his  conical  crowned  hat  and  plume  of  feathers  ?  I  counted  the 
feathers  again — three  white,  two  green. 

While  I  still  lingered  over  this  very  improving  and  intellectual 
employment,  my  thoughts  insensibly  began  to  wander.  The  moon- 
light shining  into  the  room  reminded  me  of  a  certain  moonlight 
night  in  England — the  night  after  a  picnic  party  in  a  Welsh  valley. 
Every  incident  of  the  drive  homeward,  through  lovely  scenery, 
which  the  moonlight  made  lovelier  than  ever,  came  back  to  my  re- 
membrance, though  I  had  never  given  the  picnic  a  thought  for 
years ;  though,  if  I  had  tried  to  recollect  it,  I  could  certainly  have 
recalled  little  or  nothing  of  that  scene  long  past.  Of  all  the  won 
derful  faculties  that  help  to  tell  us  we  are  immortal,  which  speaks 
the  sublime  truth  more  eloquently  than  memory  ?  Here  was  I,  in  a 
strange  house  of  the  most  suspicious  character,  in  a  situation  of  un- 
certainty, and  even  of  peril,  which  might  seem  to  make  the  cool  ex- 
ercise of  my  recollection  almost  out  of  the  question ;  nevertheless, 
remembering,  quite  involuntarily,  places,  people,  conversations,  mi- 
nute circumstances  of  every  kind,  which  I  had  thought  forgotten 
forever ;  which  I  could  not  possibly  have  recalled  at  will,  even  un- 
der the  most  favorable  auspices.  And  what  cause  had  produced  in 
a  moment  the  whole  of  this  strange,  complicated,  mysterious  effect  ? 
Nothing  but  some  rays  of  moonlight  shining  in  at  my  bedroom 
window. 

I  was  still  thinking  of  the  picnic — of  our  merriment  on  the  drive 
home — of  the  sentimental  young  lady  who  would  quote  "  Childe 
Harold  "  because  ;t  was  moonlight.  I  was  absorbed  by  these  past 
scenes  and  past  amusements,  when,  in  an  instant,  the  thread  on 
which  my  memories  hung  snapped  asunder ;  my  attention  imme- 
diately came  back  to  present  things  more  vividly  than  ever,  and  I 
found  myself,  I  neither  knew  why  nor  wherefore,  looking  hard  at 
the  picture  again. 

Looking  for  what  ? 

Good  God !  the  man  had  pulled  his  hat  down  on  his  brows !    No ! 


A  TERRIBLY   STRANGE    BED.  37 

the  liat  itself  was  gone !  Where  was  the  conical  crown  ?  Where 
the  t'cat  In TS — three  white,  two  green  ?  Not  there !  In  place  of  the 
hat  and  feathers,  what  dusky  object  was  it  that  now  hid  his  fore- 
head, his  eyes,  his  shading  hand? 

\V:is  the  lied    moving? 

I  turned  on  my  back  and  looked  up.  Was  I  mad  ?  drunk  ?  dream- 
inu  '.  j^iddy  again  ?  or  was  the  top  of  the  bed  really  moving  down — 
sinking  slowly,  regularly,  silently,  horribly,  right  down  throughout 
the  \\  hole  of  its  length  and  breadth — right  down  upon  me,  as  I  lay 
underneath  ? 

My  blood  seemed  to  stand  still.  A  deadly,  paralyzing  coldness 
stole  all  over  me  as  I  turned  my  head  round  on  the  pillow  and  de- 
termined to  test  whether  the  bed-top  was  really  moving  or  not,  by 
keeping  my  eye  on  the  man  in  the  picture. 

The  next  look  in  that  direction  was  enough.  The  dull,  black, 
frowzy  outline  of  the  valance  above  me  was  within  an  inch  of  being 
parallel  with  his  waist.  I  still  looked  breathlessly.  And  steadily 
and  slowly — very  slowly — I  saw  the  figure,  and  the  line  of  frame 
below  the  figure,  vanish,  as  the  valance  moved  down  before  it. 

1  am,  constitutionally,  any  thing  but  timid.  I  have  been  on  more 
than  one  occasion  in  peril  of  my  life,  and  have  not  lost  my  self- 
possession  for  an  instant;  but  when  the  conviction  first  settled  on 
my  mind  that  the  bed-top  was  really  moving,  was  steadily  and  con- 
tinuously sinking  down  upon  me,  I  looked  up  shuddering,  helpless, 
panic-stricken,  beneath  the  hideous  machinery  for  murder,  which 
was  advancing  closer  and  closer  to  suffocate  me  where  I  lay. 

I  looked  up,  motionless,  speechless,  breathless.  The  candle,  fully 
spent,  went  out;  but  the  moonlight  still  brightened  the  room. 
Down  and  down,  without  pausing  and  without  sounding,  came  the 
bed-top,  and  still  my  panic  terror  seemed  to  bind  me  faster  and  fast- 
er to  the  mattress  on  which  I  lay — down  and  down  it  sank,  till  the 
dusty  odor  from  the  lining  of  the  canopy  came  stealing  into  my 
nostrils. 

At  that  final  moment  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  startled  me 
out  of  my  trance,  and  I  moved  at  last.  There  was  just  room  for  me 
to  roll  myself  sideways  off  the  bed.  As  I  dropped  noiselessly  to  the 
floor,  the  edge  of  the  murderous  canopy  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

Without  stopping  to  draw  my  breath,  without  wiping  the  cold 
sweat  from  my  face,  I  rose  instantly  on  my  knees  to  watch  the  hed- 
top.  I  was  literally  spell-bound  by  it.  If  I  had  heard  footsteps 
behind  me,  I  could  not  have  turned  round  ;  if  a  means  of  escape  had 
been  miraculously  provided  for  me,  I  could  not  have  moved  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  The  whole  life  in  me  was,  at  that  moment,  con- 
centrated in  my  eyes. 

It  descended — the  whole  canopy,  with  the  fringe  round  it,  came 


38  AFTER  DARK. 

down — down — close  down ;  so  close  that  there  was  not  room  now 
to  squeeze  my  finger  between  the  bed-top  and  the  bed.  I  felt  at 
the  sides,  and  discovered  that  what  had  appeared  to  me  from  be- 
neath to  be  the  ordinary  light  canopy  of  a  four -post  bed  was  in 
reality  a  thick,  broad  mattress,  the  substance  of  which  was  con- 
cealed by  the  valance  and  its  fringe.  I  looked  up  and  saw  the  four 
posts  rising  hideously  bare.  In  the  middle  of  the  bed-top  was  a 
huge  wooden  screw  that  had  evidently  worked  it  down  through  a 
hole  in  the  ceiling,  just  as  ordinary  presses  are  worked  down  on  the 
substance  selected  for  compression.  The  frightful  apparatus  moved 
without  making  the  faintest  noise.  There  had  been  no  creaking 
as  it  came  down ;  there  was  now  not  the  faintest  sound  from  the 
room  above.  Amidst  a  dead  and  awful  silence  I  beheld  before  me 
— in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  in  the  civilized  capital  of  France — 
such  a  machine  for  secret  murder  by  suffocation  as  might  have  ex- 
isted in  the  worst  days  of  the  Inquisition,  in  the  lonely  inns  among 
the  Hartz  Mountains,  in  the  mysterious  tribunals  of  Westphalia ! 
Still,  as  I  looked  on  it,  I  could  not  move,  I  could  hardly  breathe, 
but  I  began  to  recover  the  power  of  thinking,  and  in  a  moment  I 
discovered  the  murderous  conspiracy  framed  against  me  in  all  its 
horror. 

My  cup  of  coffee  had  been  drugged,  and  drugged  too  strongly. 
I  had  been  saved  from  being  smothered  by  having  taken  an  over- 
dose of  some  narcotic.  How  I  had  chafed  and  fretted  at  the  fever 
fit  which  had  preserved  my  life  by  keeping  me  awake !  How  reck- 
lessly I  had  confided  myself  to  the  two  wretches  who  had  led  me 
into  this  room,  determined,  for  the  sake  of  my  winnings,  to  kill  me 
in  my  sleep  by  the  surest  and  most  horrible  contrivance  for  secretly 
accomplishing  my  destruction  !  How  many  men,  winners  like  me, 
had  slept,  as  I  had  proposed  to  sleep,  in  that  bed,  and  had  never 
been  seen  or  heard  of  more !  I  shuddered  at  the  bare  idea  of  it. 

But  ere  long  all  thought  was  again  suspended  by  the  sight  of 
the  murderous  canopy  moving  once  more.  After  it  had  remained 
on  the  bed — as  nearly  as  I  could  guess — about  ten  minutes,  it  be- 
gan to  move  up  again.  The  villains  who  worked  it  from  above  ev- 
idently believed  that  their  purpose  was  now  accomplished.  Slowly 
and  silently,  as  it  had  descended,  that  horrible  bed-top  rose  toward 
its  former  place.  When  it  reached  the  upper  extremities  of  the  four 
posts,  it  reached  the  ceiling  too.  Neither  hole  nor  screw  could  be 
seen;  the  bed  became  in  appearance  an  ordinary  bed  again — the 
canopy  an  ordinary  canopy — even  to  the  most  suspicious  eyes. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  was  able  to  move — to  rise  from  my  knees 
— to  dress  myself  in  my  upper  clothing — and  to  consider  of  how  I 
should  escape.  If  I  betrayed  by  the  smallest  noise  that  the  attempt 
to  suffocate  me  had  failed,  I  was  certain  to  be  murdered.  Had  I 


A    i  1.1:1:11:1  v    STRANGtt   BfcD.  39 

made  any  noise  already  ?     I  listened  intently,  looking  toward  the 
door. 

No !  no  footsteps  in  the  passage  outside  —  no  sound  of  a  tread, 
li<_cht  or  heavy,  in  the  room  above  —  absolute  silence  everywhere. 
Besides  locking  and  bolting  my  door,  I  had  moved  an  old  wooden 
chest  against  it,  which  I  had  found  under  the  bed.  To  remove  this 
chest  (my  blood  ran  cold  as  I  thought  of  what  its  contents  might 
be!)  without  making  some  disturbance  was  impossible;  and,  more- 
over, to  think  of  escaping  through  the  house,  now  barred  up  for  the 
night,  was  sheer  insanity.  Only  one  chance  was  left  me— the  win- 
dow. I  stole  to  it  on  tiptoe. 

My  bedroom  was  on  the  first  floor,  above  an  entresol,  and  looked 
into  tin-  back  street,  which  you  have  sketched  in  your  view.  I 
raised  my  hand  to  open  the  window,  knowing  that  on  that  action 
hung,  by  the  merest  hair-breadth,  my  chance  of  safety.  They  keep 
vigilant  watch  in  a  House  of  Murder.  If  any  part  of  the  frame 
cracked,  if  the  hinge  creaked,  I  was  a  lost  man !  It  must  have  oc- 
cupied me  at  least  five  minutes,  reckoning  by  time — five  hours,  reck- 
oning by  suspense — to  open  that  window.  I  succeeded  in  doing  it 
silently  in  doing  it  with  all  the  dexterity  of  a  house-breaker — and 
then  looked  down  into  the  street.  To  leap  the  distance  beneath 
me  would  be  almost  certain  destruction !  Next,  I  looked  round  at 
the  sides  of  the  house.  Down  the  left  side  ran  the  thick  water-pipe 
which  you  have  drawn  —  it  passed  close  by  the  outer  edge  of  the 
window.  The  moment  I  saw  the  pipe,  I  knew  I  was  saved.  My 
breath  came  and  went  freely  for  the  first  time  since  I  had  seen  the 
canopy  of  the  bed  moving  down  upon  me! 

To  some  men  the  means  of  escape  which  I  had  discovered  might 
have  seemed  difficult  and  dangerous  enough — to  me  the  prospect 
of  slipping  down  the  pipe  into  the  street  did  not  suggest  even  a 
thought  of  peril.  I  had  always  been  accustomed,  by  the  practice 
of  gymnastics,  to  keep  up  my  school -boy  powers  as  a  daring  and 
expert  climber;  and  knew  that  my  head,  hands,  and  feet  would 
serve  me  faithfully  in  any  hazards  of  ascent  or  descent.  I  had  al- 
ready got  one  leg  over  the  window-sill,  when  I  remembered  the 
handkerchief  filled  with  money  under  my  pillow.  I  could  well 
have  afforded  to  leave  it  behind  me,  but  I  was  revengefully  deter- 
mined that  the  miscreants  of  the  gambling-house  should  miss  their 
plunder  as  well  as  their  victim.  So  I  went  back  to  the  bed  and  tied 
the  heavy  handkerchief  at  my  back  by  my  cravat. 

•lust  as  I  had  made  it  tight  and  fixed  it  in  a  comfortable  place,  I 
thought  I  heard  a  sound  of  breathing  outside  the  door.  The  chill 
feeling  of  horror  ran  through  me  again  as  I  listened.  No !  dead 
silence  still  in  the  passage — I  had  only  heard  the  night  air  blowing 
softly  into  the  room.  The  next  moment  1  was  on  the  window-sill 


40  AFTER   DARK. 

— and  the  next  I  had  a  firm  grip  on  the  water-pipe  with  my  hands 
and  knees. 

I  slid  down  into  the  street  easily  and  quietly,  as  I  thought  I 
should,  and  immediately  set  off  at  the  top  of  my  speed  to  a  branch 
"  Prefecture  "  of  Police,  which  I  knew  was  situated  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood.  A  "  Sub-prefect,"  and  several  picked  men  among  his 
subordinates,  happened  to  be  up,  maturing,  I  believe,  some  scheme 
for  discovering  the  perpetrator  of  a  mysterious  murder  which  all 
Paris  was  talking  of  just  then.  When  I  began  my  story,  in  a  breath- 
less hurry«and  in  very  bad  French,  I  could  see  that  the  Sub-prefect 
suspected  me  of  being  a  drunken  Englishman  who  had  robbed 
somebody ;  but  he  soon  altered  his  opinion  as  I  went  on,  and  before 
I  had  any  thing  like  concluded,  he  shoved  all  the  papers  before  him 
into  a  drawer,  put  on  his  hat,  supplied  me  with  another  (for  I  was 
bare-headed),  ordered  a  file  of  soldiers,  desired  his  expert  followers 
to  get  ready  all  sorts  of  tools  for  breaking  open  doors  and  ripping 
up  brick  flooring,  and  took  my  arm,  in  the  most  friendly  and  famil- 
iar manner  possible,  to  lead  me  with  him  out  of  the  house.  I  will 
venture  to  say  that  when  the  Sub-prefect  was  a  little  boy,  and  was 
taken  for  the  first  time  to  the  play,  he  was  not  half  as  much  pleased 
as  he  was  now  at  the  job  in  prospect  for  him  at  the  gambling- 
house  ! 

Away  we  went  through  the  streets,  the  Sub-prefect  cross-exam- 
ining and  congratulating  me  in  the  same  breath  as  we  marched  at 
the  head  of  our  formidable  posse  comitatus.  Sentinels  were  placed 
at  the  back  and  front  of  the  house  the  moment  we  got  to  it ;  a  tre- 
mendous battery  of  knocks  was  directed  against  the  door ;  a  light 
appeared  at  a  window ;  I  was  told  to  conceal  myself  behind  the 
police — then  came  more  knocks,  and  a  cry  of  "  Open  in  the  name 
of  the  law!"  At  that  terrible  summons  bolts  and  locks  gave  w'ay 
before  an  invisible  hand,  and  the  moment  after  the  Sub-prefect  was 
in  the  passage,  confronting  a  waiter  half  dressed  and  ghastly  pale. 
This  was  the  short  dialogue  which  immediately  took  place : 

"  We  want  to  see  the  Englishman  who  is  sleeping  in  this  house  ?" 

"  He  went  away  hours  ago." 

"  He  did  no  such  thing.  His  friend  went  away ;  he  remained. 
Show  us  to  his  bedroom  !" 

"  I  swear  to  you,  Monsieur  le  Sous-prefect,  he  is  not  here  !  he — 

"  I  swear  to  you,  Monsieur  le  Garcon,  he  is.  He  slept  here — he 
didn't  find  your  bed  comfortable — he  came  to  us  to  complain  of  it 
— here  he  is  among  my  men — and  here  am  I  ready  to  look  for  a  flea 
or  two  in  his  bedstead.  Renaudin !  (calling  to  one  of  the  subor- 
dinates, and  pointing  to  the  waiter),  collar  that  man,  and  tie  his 
hands  behind  him.  Now,  then,  gentlemen,  let  us  walk  up  stairs !" 

Every  man  and  woman  in  the  house  was  secured — the  "  Old  Sol- 


A   TERRIBLY    STRANGE    BBD.  41 

dier  "  the  first.     Then  I  identified  the  bed  in  which  I  had  slept,  and 
then  we  went  into  the  room  above. 

No  object  that  was  at  all  extraordinary  appeared  in  any  part  of 
it.  The  Sub-prefect  looked  round  the  place,  commanded  every  body 
to  be  silent,  stamped  twice  on  the  floor,  called  for  a  candle,  looked 
attentively  at  the  spot  he  had  stamped  on,  and  ordered  the  flooring 
there  to  be  earefully  taken  up.  This  was  done  in  no  time.  Lights 
were  produced,  and  we  saw  a  deep  raftered  cavity  between  the  floor 
of  this  room  and  the  ceiling  of  the  room  beneath.  Through  this  cav- 
ity there  ran  perpendicularly  a  sort  of  case  of  iron  thickly  greased ; 
and  inside  the  case  appeared  the  screw,  which  communicated  with 
the  bed -top  below.  Extra  lengths  of  screw,  freshly  oiled;  levers 
covered  with  felt ;  all  the  complete  upper  works  of  a  heavy  press — 
constructed  with  infernal  ingenuity  so  as  to  join  the  fixtures  below, 
and  when  taken  to  pieces  again  to  go  into  the  smallest  possible  com- 
pass— were  next  discovered  and  pulled  out  on  the  floor.  After  some 
little  difficulty  the  Sub-prefect  succeeded  in  putting  the  machinery 
together,  and,  leaving  his  men  to  work  it,  descended  with  me  to  the 
bedroom.  The  smothering  canopy  was  then  lowered,  but  not  so 
noiselessly  as  I  had  seen  it  lowered.  When  I  mentioned  this  to  the 
Sub-prefect,  his  answer,  simple  as  it  was,  had  a  terrible  significance. 
44  My  men,"  said  he,  "  are  working  down  the  bed  -  top  for  the  first 
time — the  men  whose  money  you  won  were  in  better  practice." 

We  left  the  house  in  the  sole  possession  of  two  police  agents — 
every  one  of  the  inmates  being  removed  to  prison  on  the  spot.  The 
Sub- prefect,  after  taking  down  my  "proces  verbal"  in  his  office,  re- 
turned with  me  to  my  hotel  to  get  my  passport.  "  Do  you  think," 
I  asked,  as  I  gave  it  to  him,  "  that  any  men  have  really  been  smoth- 
ered in  that  bed,  as  they  tried  to  smother  me?" 

"  I  have  seen  dozens  of  drowned  men  laid  out  at  the  Morgue," 
answered  the  Sub-prefect,  "in  whose  pocket-books  were  found  let- 
ters stating  that  they  had  committed  suicide  in  the  Seine,  because 
they  had  lost  every  thing  at  the  gaming-table.  Do  I  know  how 
many  of  those  men  entered  the  same  gambling-house  that  you  en- 
tered ?  won  as  you  won?  took  that  bed  as  you  took  it?  slept  in  it? 
were  smothered  in  it?  and  were  privately  thrown  into  the  river, 
with  a  letter  of  explanation  written  by  the  murderers  and  placed 
in  their  pocket-books?  No  man  can  say  how  many  or  how  few 
have  suffered  the  fate  from  which  you  have  escaped.  The  people 
of  the  gambling-house  kept  their  bedstead  machinery  a  secret  from 
«x — even  from  the  police  !  The  dead  kept  the  rest  of  the  secret  for 
them.  Good-night,  or  rather  good-morning,  Monsieur  Faulkner! 
Be  at  my  office  again  at  nine  o'clock — in  the  mean  time,  au  revoir!" 

The  rest  of  my  story  is  soon  told.  I  was  examined  and  re-ex- 
amined ;  the  gambling-house  was  strictly  searched  all  through  from 

2 


42  ASTER  DARK. 

top  to  bottom ;  the  prisoners  were  separately  interrogated  ;  and  two 
of  the  less  guilty  among  them  made  a  confession.  I  discovered  that 
the  Old  Soldier  was  the  master  of  the  gambling-house—; justice  dis- 
covered that  he  had  been  drummed  out  of  the  army  as  a  vagabond 
years  ago ;  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  all  sorts  of  villainies  since ; 
that  he  was  in  possession  of  stolen  property,  which  the  owners  iden- 
tified ;  and  that  he,  the  croupier,  another  accomplice,  and  the  wom- 
an who  had  made  my  cup  of  coffee,  were  all  in  the  secret  of  the  bed- 
stead. There  appeared  some  reason  to  doubt  whether  the  inferior 
persons  attached  to  the  house  knew  any  thing  of  the  suffocating 
machinery ;  and  they  received  the  benefit  of  that  doubt,  by  being 
treated  simply  as  thieves  and  vagabonds.  As  for  the  Old  Soldier 
and  his  two  head  myrmidons,  they  went  to  the  galleys ;  the  woman 
who  had  drugged  my  coffee  was  imprisoned  for  I  forget  how  many 
years ;  the  regular  attendants  at  the  gambling  -  house  were  consid- 
ered "  suspicious,"  and  placed  under  "  surveillance  ;"  and  I  became, 
for  one  whole  week  (which  is  a  long  time),  the  head  "  lion  "  in  Pa- 
risian society.  My  adventure  was  dramatized  by  three  illustrious 
play-makers,  but  never  saw  theatrical  daylight ;  for  the  censorship 
forbade  the  introduction  on  the  stage  of  a  correct  copy  of  the  gam- 
bling-house bedstead. 

One  good  result  was  produced  by  my  adventure,  which  any  cen- 
sorship must  have  approved :  it  cured  me  of  ever  again  trying 
"  Rouge  et  Noir "  as  an  amusement.  The  sight  of  a  greencloth, 
with  packs  of  cards  and  heaps  of  money  on  it,  will  henceforth  be 
forever  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  sight  of  a  bed  canopy  de- 
scending to  suffocate  me  in  the  silence  and  darkness  of  the  night. 

Just  as  Mr.  Faulkner  pronounced  these  words  he  started  in  his 
chair,  and  resumed  his  stiff,  dignified  position  in  a  great  hurry. 
"  Bless  my  soul !"  cried  he,  with  a  comic  look  of  astonishment  and 
vexation,  "  while  I  have  been  telling  you  what  is  the  real  secret  of 
my  interest  in  the  sketch  you  have  so  kindly  given  to  me,  I  have  al- 
together forgotten  that  I  came  here  to  sit  for  my  portrait.  For  the 
last  hour  or  more  I  must  have  been  the  worst  model  you  ever  had 
to  draw  from !" 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  have  been  the  best,"  said  I.  "  I  have  been 
trying  to  catch  your  likeness;  and,  while  telling  your  story,  you 
have  unconsciously  shown  me  the  natural  expression  I  wanted  to 
insure  my  success." 

NOTE  BY  MRS.  KERBT. 

I  can  not  let  this  story  end  without  mentioning  what  the  chance  saying 
was  which  caused  it  to  be  told  at  the  farm-house  the  other  night.  Our  friend 
the  young  sailor,  among  his  other  quaint  objections  to  sleeping  on  shore,  de- 


A  TERRIBLY   STRANGE    BED.  43 

clared  that  lie  particularly  hated  four-post  beds,  because  he  never  slept  in 
one  without  doubting  whether  the  top  might  not  come  down  in  the  night 
and  suffocate  him.  I  thought  this  chuncu  reference  to  the  distinguishing 
feature  <>l  William's  narrative  curious  enough,  and  my  husband  agreed  with 
me.  But  he  says  it  is  scarcely  worth  while  to  mention  such  a  trifle  in  any 
thing  so  important  as  a  book.  I  can  not  venture,  after  this,  to  do  more  than 
slip  these  lines  in  modestly  at  the  end  of  the  story.  If  the  printer  should 
notice  my  few  last  words,  perhaps  he  may  not  mind  the  trouble  of  putting 
them  into  some  out-of-the-way  corner,  in  very  smail  type.  L.  K. 


44  AFTER  DABK. 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  SECOND  STORY. 

THE  beginning  of  an  excellent  connection  which  I  succeeded  in 
establishing  in  and  around  that  respectable  watering-place,  Tidbury- 
on-the-Marsh,  was  an  order  for  a  life-size  oil  portrait  of  a  great  local 
celebrity — one  Mr.  Boxsious,  a  solicitor,  who  was  understood  to  do 
the  most  thriving  business  of  any  lawyer  in  the  town. 

The  portrait  was  intended  as  a  testimonial  •"  expressive  (to  use 
the  language  of  the  circular  forwarded  to  me  at  the  time)  of  the  em- 
inent services  of  Mr.  Boxsious  in  promoting  and  securing  the  pros- 
perity of  the  town."  It  had  been  subscribed  for  by  the  "  Municipal 
Authorities  and  Resident  Inhabitants "  of  Tidbury-on-the-Marsh ; 
and  it  was  to  be  presented,  when  done,  to  Mrs.  Boxsious,  "  as  a  slight 
but  sincere  token  " — and  so  forth.  A  timely  recommendation  from 
one  of  my  kindest  friends  and  patrons  placed  the  commission  for 
painting  the  likeness  in  my  lucky  hands ;  and  I  was  instructed  to 
attend  on  a  certain  day  at  Mr.  Boxsious's  private  residence,  with  all 
my  materials  ready  for  taking  a  first  sitting. 

On  arriving  at  the  house,  I  was  shown  into  a  very  prettily  furnished 
morning-room.  The  bow-window  looked  out  on  a  large  inclosed 
meadow,  which  represented  the  principal  square  in  Tidbury.  On 
the  opposite  side  of  the  meadow  I  could  see  the  new  hotel  (with 
a  wing  lately  added),  and,  close  by,  the  old  hotel  obstinately  un- 
changed since  it  had  first  been  built.  Then,  farther  down  the  street, 
the  doctor's  house,  with  a  colored  lamp  and  a  small  door-plate,  and 
the  banker's  office,  with  a  plain  lamp  and  a  big  door-plate — then 
some  dreary  private  lodging-houses — then,  at  right  angles  to  these, 
a  street  of  shops  ;  the  cheese-monger's  very  small,  the  chemist's  very 
smart,  the  pastry-cook's  very  dowdy,  and  the  green  -  grocer's  very 
dark,  I  was  still  looking  out  at  the  view  thus  presented,  when  I  was 
suddenly  apostrophized  by  a  glib,  disputatious  voice  behind  me. 

"Now,  then,  Mr.  Artist,"  cried  the  voice,  "do  you  call  that  get- 
ting ready  for  work  ?  Where  are  your  paints  and  brushes,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it  ?  My  name's  Boxsious,  and  I'm  here  to  sit  for  my 
picture." 

I  turned  round,  and  confronted  a  little  man  with  his  legs  astrad- 
dle, and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  had  light-gray  eyes,  red  all 
round  the  lids,  bristling  pepper-colored  hair,  an  unnaturally  rosy 
complexion,  and  an  eager,  impudent,  clever  look.  I  made  two  dis- 
coveries in  one  glance  at  him :  First,  that  he  was  a  wretched  subject 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  SECOND  8TOET.          46 

for  a  portrait ;  secondly,  that,  whatever  he  might  do  or  say,  it  would 
not  be  of  the  least  use  for  me  to  stand  on  my  dignity  with  him. 

"  I  shall  be  ready  directly,  sir,"  said  I. 

"  Ready  directly  ?"  repeated  my  new  sitter.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
Mr.  Artist,  by  ready  directly  ?  I'm  ready  twv).  What  was  your  con- 
tract with  the  Town  Council,  who  have  subscribed  for  this  picture  ? 
To  paint  the  portrait.  And  what  was  my  contract  ?  To  sit  for  it. 
Here  am  I  ready  to  sit,  and  there  are  you  not  ready  to  paint  me. 
According  to  all  the  rules  of  law  and  logic,  you  are  committing  a 
breach  of  contract  already.  Stop !  let's  have  a  look  at  your  paints. 
Are  they  the  best  quality  ?  If  not,  I  warn  you,  sir,  there's  a  second 
breach  of  contract !  Brushes,  too  ?  Why,  they're  old  brushes,  by 
the  Lord  Harry !  The  Town  Council  pays  you  well,  Mr.  Artist ; 
why  don't  you  work  for  them  with  new  brushes  ?  What  ?  you  work 
best  with  old  ?  I  contend,  sir,  that  you  can't.  Does  my  house-maid 
clean  best  with  an  old  broom  ?  Do  my  clerks  write  best  with  old 
pens  ?  Don't  color  up,  and  don't  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  quar- 
rel with  me !  You  can't  quarrel  with  me.  If  you  were  fifty  times 
as  irritable  a  man  as  you  look,  you  couldn't  quarrel  with  me.  I'm 
not  young,  and  I'm  not  touchy — I'm  Boxsious,  the  lawyer;  the  only 
man  in  the  world  who  can't  be  insulted,  try  it  how  you  like !" 

He  chuckled  as  he  said  this,  and  walked  away  to  the  window. 
It  was  quite  useless  to  take  any  thing  he  said  seriously,  so  I  finished 
preparing  my  palette  for  the  morning's  work  with  the  utmost  seren- 
ity of  look  and  manner  that  I  could  possibly  assume. 

"  There  !"  he  went  on,  looking  out  of  the  window ;  "  do  you  see 
that  fat  man  slouching  along  the  Parade,  with  a  snuffy  nose  ?  That's 
my  favorite  enemy,  Dunball.  He  tried  to  quarrel  with  me  ten  years 
ago,  and  he  has  done  nothing  but  bring  out  the  hidden  benevolence 
of  my  character  ever  since.  Look  at  him !  look  how  he  frowns  as 
he  turns  this  way.  And  now  look  at  me !  I  can  smile  and  nod  to 
him.  I  make  a  point  of  always  smiling  and  nodding  to  him  —  it 
keeps  my  hand  in  for  other  enemies.  Good-morning!  (I've  cast  him 
twice  in  heavy  damages)  good  -  morning,  Mr.  Dunball.  He  bears 
malice,  you  see ;  he  won't  speak ;  he's  short  in  the  neck,  passionate, 
and  four  times  as  fat  as  he  ought  to  be ;  he  has  fought  against  my 
amiability  for  ten  mortal  years  ;  when  he  can't  fight  any  longer,  he'll 
die  suddenly,  and  I  shall  be  the  innocent  cause  of  it." 

Mr.  Boxsious  uttered  this  fatal  prophecy  with  extraordinary  com- 
placency, nodding  and  smiling  out  of  the  window  all  the  time  at 
the  unfortunate  man  who  had  rashly  tried  to  provoke  him.  When 
his  favorite  enemy  was  out  of  sight,  he  turned  away,  and  indulged 
himself  in  a  brisk  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  room.  Meanwhile 
I  lifted  my  canvas  on  the  easel,  and  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him 
to  sit  down,  when  he  assailed  me  again. 


46  AFTER   DARK. 

"Now,  Mr.  Artist,"  he  cried,  quickening  his  walk  impatiently, 
"  in  the  interests  of  the  Town  Council,  your  employers,  allow  me  to 
ask  you  for  the  last  time  when  you  are  going  to  begin  ?" 

"And  allow  me,  Mr.  Boxsious,  in  the  interest  of  the  Town  Council 
also,"  said  I,  "  to  ask  you  if  your  notion  of  the  proper  way  of  sitting 
for  your  portrait  is  to  walk  about  the  room  ?" 

"Aha!  well  put  —  devilish  well  put!"  returned  Mr.  Boxsious, 
"  that's  the  only  sensible  thing  you  have  said  since  you  entered  my 
house ;  I  begin  to  like  you  already."  With  these  words  he  nodded 
at  me  approvingly,  and  jumped  into  the  high  chair  that  I  had  placed 
for  him  with  the  alacrity  of  a  young  man. 

"I  say,  Mr.  Artist,"  he  went  on,  when  I  had  put  him  into  the 
right  position  (he  insisted  on  the  front  view  of  his  face  being  taken, 
because  the  Town  Council  would  get  the  most  for  their  money  in 
that  way),  "  you  don't  have  many  such  good  jobs  as  this,  do 
you  ?" 

"  Not  many,"  I  said.  "  I  should  not  be  a  poor  man  if  commis- 
sions for  life-size  portraits  often  fell  in  my  way." 

"  You  poor !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Boxsious,  contemptuously.  "  I  dis- 
pute that  point  with  you  at  the  outset.  Why,  you've  got  a  good 
cloth  coat,  a  clean  shirt,  and  a  smooth  -  shaved  chin.  You've  got 
the  sleek  look  of  a  man  who  has  slept  between  sheets  and  had  his 
breakfast.  You  can't  humbug  me  about  poverty,  for  I  know  what  it 
is.  Poverty  means  looking  like  a  scarecrow,  feeling  like  a  scarecrow, 
and  getting  treated  like  a  scarecrow.  That  was  my  luck,  let  me 
tell  you,  when  I  first  thought  of  trying  the  law.  Poverty,  indeed ! 
Do  you  shake  in  your  shoes,  Mr.  Artist,  when  you  think  what  you 
were  at  twenty  ?  I  do,  I  can  promise  you." 

He  began  to  shift  about  so  irritably  in  his  chair,  that,  in  the  in- 
terests of  my  work,  I  was  obliged  to  make  an  effort  to  calm  him. 

"  It  must  be  a  pleasant  occupation  for  you  in  your  present  pros- 
perity," said  I,  "to  look  back  sometimes  at  the  gradual  processes 
by  which  you  passed  from  poverty  to  competence,  and  from  that  to 
the  wealth  you  now  enjoy." 

"  Gradual,  did  you  say  ?"  cried  Mr.  Boxsious ;  "  it  wasn't  gradual 
at  all.  I  was  sharp — damned  sharp,  and  I  jumped  at  my  first  start 
in  business  slap  into  five  hundred  pounds  in  one  day." 

"  That  was  an  extraordinary  step  in  advance,"  I  rejoined.  "  I 
suppose  you  contrived  to  make  some  profitable  investment — " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  I  hadn't  a  spare  sixpence  to  invest  with.  I 
won  the  money  by  my  brains,  my  hands,  and  my  pluck ;  and,  what's 
more,  I'm  proud  of  having  done  it.  That  was  rather  a  curious  case, 
Mr.  Artist.  Some  men  might  be  shy  of  mentioning  it ;  I  never  was 
shy  in  my  life,  and  I  mention  it  right  and  left  everywhere  —  the 
whole  case,  just  as  it  happened,  except  the  names.  Catch  me  ever 


PROLOGUE   TO  TUB   SECOND   BTOET.  47 

committing  myself  to  mentioning  names !  Mum's  the  word,  sir, 
with  yours  to  command,  Thomas  Boxsious." 

"  As  you  mention  '  the  case '  everywhere,"  said  I,  "  perhaps  you 
would  not  be  offended  with  me  if  I  told  you  I  should  like  to  hear 
it  '." 

-  M:m  alive!  haven't  I  told  you  already  that  I  can't  be  offended? 
And  didn't  I  say  a  moment  ago  that  I  was  proud  of  the  case?  I'll 
tell  you,  Mr.  Artist — but  stop!  I've  got  the  interests  of  the  Town 
Council  to  look  after  in  this  business.  Can  you  paint  as  well  when 
I'm  talking  as  when  I'm  not?  Don't  sneer,  sir;  you're  not  wanted 
to  sneer — you're  wanted  to  give  an  answer — yes  or  no  ?" 

"  Yes,  then,''  I  replied,  in  his  own  sharp  way.  "  I  can  always 
paint  the  better  when  I  am  hearing  an  interesting  story." 

••  What  do  you  mean  by  talking  about  a  story  ?  I'm  not  going  to 
tell  you  a  story;  I'm  going  to  make  a  statement.  A  statement  is  a 
matter  of  fact,  therefore  the  exact  opposite  of  a  story,  which  is  a 
matter  of  fiction.  What  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you  really  happen- 
ed to  me." 

I  was  glad  to  see  that  he  settled  himself  quietly  in  his  chair  be- 
fore he  began.  His  odd  manners  and  language  made  such  an  im- 
pression on  me  at  the  time,  that  I  think  I  can  repeat  his  "  statement " 
now,  almost  word  for  word  as  he  addressed  it  to  me. 


AFTER   DARK. 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 


I  SEKVED  my  time — never  mind  in  whose  office — and  I  started  in 
business  for  myself  in  one  of  our  English  country  towns,  I  decline 
stating  which.  I  hadn't  a  farthing  of  capital,  and  my  friends  in  the 
neighborhood  were  poor  and  useless  enough,  with  one  exception. 
That  exception  was  Mr.  Frank  Gatliffe,  son  of  Mr.  Gatliffe,  member 
for  the  county,  the  richest  man  and  the  proudest  for  many  a  mile 
round  about  our  parts.  Stop  a  bit,  Mr.  Artist,  you  needn't  perk  up 
and  look  knowing.  You  won't  trace  any  particulars  by  the  name 
of  Gatliffe.  I'm  not  bound  to  commit  myself  or  any  body  else  by 
mentioning  names.  I  have  given  you  the  first  that  came  into  my 
head. 

Well,  Mr.  Frank  was  a  staunch  friend  of  mine,  and  ready  to  rec- 
ommend me  whenever  he  got  the  chance.  I  had  contrived  to  get 
him  a  little  timely  help — for  a  consideration,  of  course — in  borrow- 
ing money  at  a  fair  rate  of  interest ;  in  fact,  I  had  saved  him  from 
the  Jews.  The  money  was  borrowed  while  Mr.  Frank  was  at  col- 
lege. He  came  back  from  college,  and  stopped  at  home  a  little 
while,  and  then  there  got  spread  about  all  our  neighborhood  a  re- 
port that  he  had  fallen  in  love,  as  the  saying  is,  with  his  young  sis- 
ter's governess,  and  that  his  mind  was  made  up  to  marry  her. 
What !  you're  at  it  again,  Mr.  Artist !  You  want  to  know  her  name, 
don't  you  ?  What  do  you  think  of  Smith  ? 

Speaking  as  a  lawyer,  I  consider  report,  in  a  general  way,  to  be 
a  fool  and  a  liar.  But  in  this  case  report  turned  out  to  be  some- 
thing very  different.  Mr.  Frank  told  me  he  was  really  in  love,  and 
said  upon  his  honor  (an  absurd  expression  which  young  chaps  of 
his  age  are  always  using)  he  was  determined  to  marry  Smith,  the 
governess — the  sweet,  darling  girl,  as  he  called  her ;  but  I'm  not  sen- 
timental, and  /  call  her  Smith,  the  governess.  Well,  Mr.  Frank's  fa- 
ther, being  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  said  "  No,"  as  to  marrying  the  gov- 
erness, when  Mr.  Frank  wanted  him  to  say  "  Yes."  He  was  a  man 
of  business,  was  old  Gatliffe,  and  he  took  the  proper  business  course. 
He  sent  the  governess  away  with  a  first-rate  character  and  a  spank- 
ing present,  and  then  he  looked  about  him  to  get  something  for  Mr. 
Frank  to  do.  While  he  was  looking  about,  Mr.  Frank  bolted  to 


A   STOLEN   LETTER.  49 

London  after  the  governess,  who  had  nobody  alive  belonging  to  her 
to  go  to  but  an  aunt — her  father's  sister.  The  aunt  refuses  to  let 
Mr.  Frank  in  without  the  squire's  permission.  Mr.  Frank  writes  to 
his  father,  and  says  he  will  marry  the  girl  as  soon  as  he  is  of  age,  or 
shoot  himself.  Up  to  town  comes  the  squire  and  his  wife  and  his 
daughter,  and  a  lot  of  sentimentality,  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
material  to  the  present  statement,  takes  place  among  them ;  and  the 
up.-hot  of  it  is  that  old  Gatliffe  is  forced  into  withdrawing  the  word 
No,  and  substituting  the  word  Yes. 

I  don't  U-lieve  he  would  ever  have  done  it,  though,  but  for  one 
lucky  peculiarity  in  the  case.  The  governess's  father  was  a  man  of 
good  family — pretty  nigh  as  good  as  Gatliffe's  own.  He  had  been 
in  the  army ;  had  sold  out ;  set  up  as  a  wine-merchant — failed — 
died ;  ditto  his  wife,  as  to  the  dying  part  of  it.  No  relation,  in  fact, 
left  for  the  squire  to  make  inquiries  about  but  the  father's  sister — 
who  had  behaved,  as  old  Gatliffe  said,  like  a  thorough-bred  gentle- 
woman in  shutting  the  door  against  Air.  Frank  in  the  first  instance. 
So,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  things  were  at  last  made  up  pleasant 
enough.  The  time  was  **xed  for  the  wedding,  and  an  announce- 
ment a  taut  it — Marriage  in  High  Life  and  all  that — put  into  the 
county  paper.  There  was  a  regular  biography,  besides,  of  the  gov- 
ernr-^'s  father,  so  as  to  stop  people  from  talking — a  great  flourish 
about  his  pedigree,  and  a  long  account  of  his  services  in  the  army ; 
but  not  a  word,  mind  ye,  of  his  having  turned  wine-merchant  after- 
ward. Oh  no — not  a  word  about  that ! 

I  knew  it,  though,  for  Mr.  Frank  told  me.  He  hadn't  a  bit  of 
pride  about  him.  He  introduced  me  to  his  future  wife  one  day 
when  I  met  him  out  walking,  and  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  he 
was  a  lucky  fellow.  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  I  did,  and  that  I 
told  him  so.  Ah !  but  she  was  one  of  my  sort,  was  that  governess. 
Stood,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  five  foot  four.  Good  lissom 
figure,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  boxed  up  in  a  pair  of 
stays.  Eyes  that  made  me  feel  as  if  I  was  under  a  pretty  stiff  cross- 
examination  the  moment  she  looked  at  me.  Fine  red,  kiss-and- 
come-again  sort  of  lips.  Cheeks  and  complexion —  No,  Mr.  Artist, 
you  wouldn't  identify  her  by  her  cheeks  and  complexion,  if  I  drew 
you  a  picture  of  them  this  very  moment.  She  has  had  a  family  of 
children  since  the  time  I'm  talking  of;  and  her  cheeks  are  a  trifle 
fatter,  and  her  complexion  is  a  shade  or  two  redder  now,  than  when 
I  first  met  her  out  walking  with  Mr.  Frank. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  on  a  Wednesday.  I  decline  men- 
tioning the  year  or  the  month.  I  had  started  as  an  attorney  on  my 
own  account — say  six  weeks,  more  or  less,  and  was  sitting  alone  in 
my  office  on  the  Monday  morning  before  the  wedding-day,  trying 
to  see  my  way  clear  before  me  and  not  succeeding  particularly  well, 

?* 


50  AFTER    DARK. 

when  Mr.  Frank  suddenly  bursts  in,  as  white  as  any  ghost  that  ever 
was  painted,  and  says  he's  got  the  most  dreadful  case  for  me  to  ad- 
vise on,  and  not  an  hour  to  lose  in  acting  on  my  advice. 

"  Is  this  in  the  way  of  business,  Mr.  Frank  ?"  says  I,  stopping  him 
just  as  he  was  beginning  to  get  sentimental.  "  Yes  or  no,  Mr. 
Frank  ?"  rapping  my  new  office  paper-knife  on  the  table,  to  pull  him 
up  short  all  the  sooner. 

"  My  dear  fellow  " — he  was  always  familiar  with  me — "  it's  in  the 
way  of  business,  certainly ;  but  friendship — " 

I  was  obliged  to  pull  him  up  short  again,  and  regularly  examine 
him  as  if  he  had  been  in  the  witness-box,  or  he  would  have  kept  me 
talking  to  no  purpose  half  the  day. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Frank,"  says  I,  "  I  can't  have  any  sentimentality  mixed 
up  with  business  matters.  You  please  to  stop  talking,  and  let  me 
ask  questions.  Answer  in  the  fewest  words  you  can  use.  Nod 
when  nodding  will  do  instead  of  words." 

I  fixed  him  with  my  eye  for  about  three  seconds,  as  he  sat  groan- 
ing and  wriggling  in  his  chair.  When  I'd  done  fixing  him,  I  gave 
another  rap  with  my  paper-knife  on  the  table  to  startle  him  up  a 
bit.  Then  I  went  on. 

"  From  what  you  have  been  stating  up  to  the  present  time,"  says 
I,  "  I  gather  that  you  are  in  a  scrape  which  is  likely  to  interfere  se- 
riously with  your  marriage  on  Wednesday  ?" 

(He  nodded,  and  I  cut  in  again  before  he  could  say  a  word)  : 

"  The  scrape  affects  your  young  lady,  and  goes  back  to  the  period 
of  a  transaction  in  which  her  late  father  was  engaged,  don't  it  ?" 

(He  nods,  and  I  cut  in  once  more)  : 

"There  is  a  party, -who  turned  up  after  seeing  the  announcement 
of  your  marriage  in  the  paper,  who  is  cognizant  of  what  he  oughtn't 
to  know,  and  who  is  prepared  to  use  his  knowledge  of  the  same  to 
the  prejudice  of  the  young  lady  and  of  your  marriage,  unless  he  re- 
ceives a  sum  of  money  to  quiet  him  ?  Very  well.  Now,  first  of  all, 
Mr.  Frank,  state  what  you  have  been  told  by  the  young  lady  her- 
self about  the  transaction  of  her  late  father.  How  did  you  first 
come  to  have  any  knowledge  of  it  ?" 

"  She  was  talking  to  me  about  her  father  one  day  so  tenderly  and 
prettily,  that  she  quite  excited  my  interest  about  him,"  begins  Mr. 
Frank  ;  "  and  I  asked  her,  among  other  things,  what  had  occasioned 
his  death.  She  said  she  believed  it  was  distress  of  mind  in  the  first 
instance ;  and  added  that  this  distress  was  connected  with  a  shock- 
ing secret,  which  she  and  her  mother  had  kept  from  every  body,  but 
which  she  could  not  keep  from  me,  because  she  was  determined  to 
begin  her  married  life  by  having  no  secrets  from  her  husband." 
Here  Mr.  Frank  began  to  get  sentimental  again,  and  I  pulled  him 
up  short  once  more  with  the  paper-knife. 


A   STOLEN    LETTEB.  51 

"  She  told  me,"  Mr.  Frank  went  on,  "  that  the  great  mistake  of 
her  father's  life  was  his  selling  out  of  the  army  and  taking  to  the 
wine  trade.  He  had  no  talent  for  business;  things  went  wrong  with 
him  from  the  first.  His  clerk,  it  was  strongly  suspected,  cheated 
him— " 

u  Stop  a  bit,"  says  I.     "  What  was  that  suspected  clerk's  name  ?" 

"Davager,"  says  he. 

"  Davager,"  says  I,  making  a  note  of  it.    "  Go  on,  Mr.  Frank." 

"  His  affairs  got  more  and  more  entangled,"  says  Mr.  Frank  ;  "  he 
was  pressed  for  money  in  all  directions ;  bankruptcy,  and  conse- 
quent dishonor  (as  he  considered  it),  stared  him  in  the  face.  His 
mind  was  so  affected  by  his  troubles  that  both  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter, toward  the  last,  considered  him  to  be  hardly  responsible  for  his 
own  acts.  In  this  state  of  desperation  and  misery,  he — "  Here  Mr. 
Frank  began  to  hesitate. 

We  have  two  ways  in  the  law  of  drawing  evidence  off  nice  and 
clear  from  an  unwilling  client  or  witness.  We  give  him  a  fright,  or 
we  treat  him  to  a  joke.  I  treated  Mr.  Frank  to  a  joke. 

"  Ah !"  says  I,  "  I  know  what  he  did.  He  had  a  signature  to 
write ;  and,  by  the  most  natural  mistake  in  the  world,  he  wrote  an- 
other gentleman's  name  instead  of  his  own — eh  ?" 

"  It  was  to  a  bill,"  says  Mr.  Frank,  looking  very  crest-fallen,  in- 
stead of  taking  the  joke.  "His  principal  creditor  wouldn't  wait  till 
he  could  raise  the  money,  or  the  greater  part  of  it.  But  he  was  re- 
solved, if  he  sold  off  every  thing,  to  get  the  amount  and  repay — 

"  Of  course,"  says  I,  "  drop  that.  The  forgery  was  discovered. 
When  '." 

"Befirre  even  the  first  attempt  was  made  to  negotiate  the  bill. 
He  had  done  the  whole  thing  in  the  most  absurdly  and  innocently 
wrong  way.  The  person  whose  name  he  had  used  was  a  staunch 
friend  of  his,  and  a  relation  of  his  wife's — a  good  man  as  well  as  a 
rich  one.  He  had  influence  with  the  chief  creditor,  and  he  used  it 
nobly.  He  had  a  real  affection  for  the  unfortunate  man's  wife,  and 
he  proved  it  generously." 

••  Come  to  the  point,"  says  I.  u  What  did  he  do?  In  a  business 
way,  what  did  he  do  ?" 

"  He  put  the  false  bill  into  the  fire,  drew  a  bill  of  his  own  to  re- 
place it,  and  then — only  then — told  my  dear  girl  and  her  mother  all 
that  had  happened.  Can  you  imagine  any  thing  nobler  ?"  asks  Mr. 
Frank. 

"  Speaking  in  my  professional  capacity,  I  can't  imagine  any  thing 
greener?''  says  I.  "  Where  was  the  father  ?  Off,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  111  in  bed,"  says  Mr.  Frank,  coloring.  u  But  he  mustered 
strength  enough  to  write  a  contrite  and  grateful  letter  the  same 
day,  promising  to  prove  himself  worthy  of  the  noble  moderation 


52  AFTER    DARK. 

and  forgiveness  extended  to  him,  by  selling  off  every  thing  he  pos- 
sessed to  repay  his  money  debt.  He  did  sell  off  every  thing,  down 
to  some  old  family  pictures  that  were  heir-looms ;  down  to  the  little 
plate  he  had  ;  down  to  the  very  tables  and  chairs  that  furnished  his 
drawing-room.  Every  farthing  of  the  debt  was  paid ;  and  he  was 
left  to  begin  the  world  again,  with  the  kindest  promises  of  help 
from  the  generous  man  who  had  forgiven  him.  It  was  too  late. 
His  crime  of  one  rash  moment  —  atoned  for  though  it  had  been  — 
preyed  upon  his  mind.  He  became  possessed  with  the  idea  that  he 
had  lowered  himself  forever  in  the  estimation  of  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter, and — " 

"  He  died,"  I  cut  in.  "  Yes,  yes,  we  know  that.  Let's  go  back 
for  a  minute  to  the  contrite  and  grateful  letter  that  he  wrote.  My 
experience  in  the  law,  Mr.  Frank,  has  convinced  me  that  if  every 
body  burned  every  body  else's  letters,  half  the  courts  of  justice  in 
this  country  might  shut  up  shop.  Do  you  happen  to  know  whether 
the  letter  we  are  now  speaking  of  contained  any  thing  like  an  avow- 
al or  confession  of  the  forgery  ?" 

"  Of  course  it  ,did,"  says  he.  "  Could  the  writer  express  his  con- 
trition properly  without  making  some  such  confession  ?" 

"  Quite  easy,  if  he  had  been  a  lawyer,"  says  I.  "  But  never  mind 
that ;  I'm  going  to  make  a  guess — a  desperate  guess,  mind.  Should 
I  be  altogether  in  error  if  I  thought  that  this  letter  had  been  stolen ; 
and  that  the  fingers  of  Mr.  Davager,  of  suspicious  commercial  celeb- 
rity, might  possibly  be  the  fingers  which  took  it  ?" 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  make  you  understand,"  cried 
Mr.  Frank. 

"  How  did  he  communicate  the  interesting  fact  of  the  theft  to 
you  ?" 

"  He  has  not  ventured  into  my  presence.  The  scoundrel  actually 
had  the  audacity — " 

"Aha!"  says  I.  "The  young  lady  herself!  Sharp  practitioner, 
Mr.  Davager." 

"  Early  this  morning,  when  she  was  walking  alone  in  the  shrub- 
bery," Mr.  Frank  goes  on,  "  he  had  the  assurance  to  approach  her, 
and  to  say  that  he  had  been  watching  his  opportunity  of  getting  a 
private  interview  for  days  past.  He  then  showed  her  —  actually 
showed  her — her  unfortunate  father's  letter ;  put  into  her  hands  an- 
other letter  directed  to  me^  bowed,  and  walked  off;  leaving  her 
half  dead  with  astonishment  and  terror.  If  I  had  only  happened  to 
be  there  at  the  time !"  says  Mr.  Frank,  shaking  his  fist  murderous- 
ly in  the  air,  by  way  of  a  finish. 

"  It's  the  greatest  luck  in  the  world  that  you  were  not,"  says  I. 
"  Have  you  got  that  other  letter  ?" 

He  handed  it  to  me.     It  was  so  remarkably  humorous  and  short, 


A    STOLEN   LETTER.  53 

that  I  remember  every  word  of  it  at  this  distance  of  time.     It  began 
in  this  way : 

To  Francis  Gatliffe,  Esq.,  Jun. 

"  SIR, — I  have  an  extremely  curious  autograph  letter  to  sell.  The 
price  is  a  five-hundred-pound  note.  The  young  lady  to  whom  you 
are  to  be  married  on  Wednesday  will  inform  you  of  the  nature  of 
the  letter,  and  the  genuineness  of  the  autograph.  If  you  refuse  to 
deal,  I  shall  send  a  copy  to  the  local  paper,  and  shall  wait  on  your 
highly-respected  father  with  the  original  curiosity,  on  the  afternoon 
of  Tuesday  next.  Having  come  down  here  on  family  business,  I 
have  put  up  at  the  family  hotel — being  to  be  heard  of  at  the  Gat- 
liffe Arms.  Your  very  obedient  servant,  ALFRED  DAVAGER." 

"A  clever  fellow  that,"  says  I,  putting  the  letter  into  my  private 
drawer. 

"'Clever!"  cries  Mr.  Frank,  "  he  ought  to  be  horsewhipped  with- 
in an  inch  of  his  life.  I  would  have  don«?  it  myself;  but  she  made 
me  promise,  before  she  told  me  a  word  of  the  matter,  to  come 
straight  to  you." 

"  That  was  one  of  the  wisest  promises  you  ever  made,"  says  I. 
"  We  can't  afford  to  bully  this  fellow,  whatever  else  we  may  do  with 
him.  Do  you  think  I  am  saying  any  thing  libelous  against  your 
excellent  father's  character  when  I  assert  that  if  he  saw  the  letter 
he  would  certainly  insist  on  your  marriage  being  put  off,  at  the  very 
least  ?" 

"Feeling  as  my  father  does  about  my  marriage,  he  would  insist 
on  its  being  dropped  altogether,  if  he  saw  this  letter,"  says  Mr. 
Frank,  with  a  groan.  "  But  even  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it.  The 
generous,  noble  girl  herself  says  that  if  the  letter  appears  in  the 
paper,  with  all  the  unanswerable  comments  this  scoundrel  would  be 
sure  to  add  to  it,  she  would  rather  die  than  hold  me  to  my  engage- 
ment, even  if  my  father  would  let  me  keep  it."  . 

As  he  said  this  his  eyes  began  to  water.  He  was  a  weak  young 
fellow,  mid  ridiculously  fond  of  her.  I  brought  him  back  to  busi- 
ness with  another  rap  of  the  paper-knife. 

"  Hold  up.  Mr.  Frank,"  says  I.  "  I  have  a  question  or  two  more. 
Did  you  think  of  asking  the  young  lady  whether,  to  the  best  of  her 
knowledge,  this  infernal  letter  was  the  only  written  evidence  of  the 
fonrcry  now  in  existence?1' 

"  Yes,  I  did  think  directly  of  asking  her  that,"  says  he ;  "  and  she 
told  me  she  was  quite  certain  that  there  was  no  written  evidence  of 
the  forgery  except  that  one  letter." 

"  Will  you  give  Mr.  Davager  his  price  for  it  ?"  says  I. 

"  Yes,"  says  Mr.  Frank,  quite  peevish  with  me  for  asking  him  such 


54  AFTEK   DAKK. 

a  question.  He  was  an  easy  young  chap  in  money  matters,  and  talked 
of  hundreds  as  most  men  talk  of  sixpences. 

"  Mr.  Frank,"  says  I,  "  you  came  here  to  get  my  help  and  advice 
in  this  extremely  ticklish  business,  and  you  are  ready,  as  I  know 
without  asking,  to  remunerate  me  for  all  and  any  of  my  services  at 
the  usual  professional  rate.  Now,  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  act 
boldly — desperately,  if  you  like — on  the  hit  or  miss,  win  all  or  lose 
all  principle — in  dealing  with  this  matter.  Here  is  my  proposal. 
I'm  going  to  try  if  I  can't  do  Mr.  Davager  out  of  his  letter.  If  I 
don't  succeed  before  to-morrow  afternoon,  you  hand  him  the  money, 
and  I  charge  you  nothing  for  professional  services.  If  I  do  succeed, 
I  hand  you  the  letter  instead  of  Mr.  Davager,  and  you  give  me  the 
money  instead  of  giving  it  to  him.  It's  a  precious  risk  for  me,  but 
I'm  ready  to  run  it.  You  must  pay  your  five  hundred  any  way. 
What  do  you  say  to  my  plan  ?  Is  it  Yes,  Mr.  Frank,  or  No  ?" 

"  Hang  your  questions !"  cries  Mr.  Frank,  jumping  up ;  "  you 
know  it's  Yes  ten  thousand  times  over.  Only  you  earn  the  money 
and—" 

"And  you  will  be  too  glad  to  give  it  to  me.  Very  good.  Now 
go  home.  Comfort  the  young  lady — don't  let  Mr.  Davager  so  much 
as  set  eyes  on  you — keep  quiet — leave  every  thing  to  me — and  feel 
as  certain  as  you  please  that  all  the  letters  in  the  world  can't  stop 
your  being  married  on  Wednesday."  With  these  words  I  hustled 
him  off  out  of  the  office,  for  I  wanted  to  be  left  alone  to  make  my 
mind  up  about  what  I  should  do. 

The  first  thing,  of  course,  was  to  have  a  look  at  the  enemy.  I 
wrote  to  Mr.  Davager,  telling  him  that  I  was  privately  appointed 
to  arrange  the  little  business  matter  between  himself  and  "  another 
party  "  (no  names  !)  on  friendly  terms ;  and  begging  him  to  call  on 
me  at  his  earliest  convenience.  At  the  very  beginning  of  the  case, 
Mr.  Davager  bothered  me.  His  answer  was,  that  it  would  not  be 
convenient  to  him  to  call  till  between  six  and  seven  in  the  evening. 
In  this  way,  you  see,  he  contrived  to  make  me  lose  several  precious 
hours,  at  a  time  when  minutes  almost  were  of  importance.  I  had 
nothing  for  it  but  to  be  patient,  and  to  give  certain  instructions,  be- 
fore Mr.  Davager  came,  to  my  boy  Tom. 

There  never  was  such  a  sharp  boy  of  fourteen  before,  and  there 
never  will  be  again,  as  my  boy  Tom.  A  spy  to  look  after  Mr.  Dav- 
ager was,  of  course,  the  first  requisite  in  a  case  of  this  kind ;  and 
Tom  was  the  smallest,  quickest,  quietest,  sharpest,  stealthiest,  little 
snake  of  a  chap  that  ever  dogged  a  gentleman's  steps  and  kept 
cleverly  out  of  range  of  a  gentleman's  eyes.  I  settled  it  with  the 
boy  that  he  was  not  to  show  at  all  when  Mr.  Davager  came ;  and 
that  he  was  to  wait  to  hear  me  ring  the  bell  when  Mr.  Davager  left. 
If  I  rang  twice,  he  was  to  show  the  gentleman  out.  If  I  rang  once, 


A   STOLEN    LETTER.  55 

he  was  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  and  follow  the  gentleman  wherever 
he  went  till  he  got  back  to  the  inn.  Those  were  the  only  prepara- 
tions I  could  make  to  begin  with ;  being  obliged  to  wait,  and  let 
myself  be  guided  by  what  turned  up. 

About  a  quarter  to  seven  my  gentleman  came. 

In  the  profession  of  the  law  we  get  somehow  quite  remarkably 
mixed  up  with  ugly  people,  blackguard  people,  and  dirty  people. 
But  far  away  the  ugliest  and  dirtiest  blackguard  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life  was  Mr.  Alfred  Davager.  He  had  greasy  white  hair  and  a  mot- 
tled face.  He  was  low  in  the  forehead,  fat  in  the  stomach,  hoarse 
in  the  voice,  and  weak  in  the  legs.  Both  his  eyes  were  blood-shot, 
and  one  was  fixed  in  his  head.  He  smelled  of  spirits,  and  carried  a 
tooth-pick  in  his  mouth.  "  How  are  you  ?  I've  just  done  dinner," 
says  he  ;  and  he  lights  a  cigar,  sits  down  with  his  legs  crossed,  and 
winks  at  me. 

I  tried  at  first  to  take  the  measure  of  him  in  a  wheedling,  confi- 
dential way ;  but  it  was  no  good.  I  asked  him,  in  a  facetious,  smil- 
ing manner,  how  he  had  got  hold  of  the  letter.  He  only  told  me  in 
answer  that  he  had  been  in  the  confidential  employment  of  the  writ- 
er of  it,  and  that  he  had  always  been  famous  since  infancy  for  a  sharp 
eye  to  his  own  interests.  I  paid  him  some  compliments ;  but  he  was 
not  to  be  flattered.  I  tried  to  make  him  lose  his  temper;  but  he 
kept  it  in  spite  of  me.  It  ended  in  his  driving  me  to  my  last  re- 
source— I  made  an  attempt  to  frighten  him. 

"  Before  we  say  a  word  about  the  money,"  I  began,  "  let  me  put  a 
case,  Mr.  Davager.  The  pull  you  have  on  Mr.  Francis  Gatliffe  is, 
that  you  can  hinder  his  marriage  on  Wednesday.  Now,  suppose  I 
have  got  a  magistrate's  warrant  to  apprehend  you  in  my  pocket  ? 
Suppose  I  have  a  constable  to  execute  it  in  the  next  room  ?  Sup- 
pose I  bring  you  up  to-morrow  —  the  day  before  the  marriage — 
charge  you  only  generally  with  an  attempt  to  extort  money,  and  ap- 
ply for  a  day's  remand  to  complete  the  case  ?  Suppose,  as  a  sus- 
picious stranger,  you  can't  get  bail  in  this  town  ?  Suppose — " 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  says  Mr.  Davager.  "  Suppose  I  should  not  be  the 
greenest  fool  that  ever  stood  in  shoes  ?  Suppose  I  should  not  carry 
the  letter  about  me  ?  Suppose  I  should  have  given  a  certain  en- 
velope to  a  certain  friend  of  mine  in  a  certain  place  in  this  town  ? 
Suppose  the  letter  should  be  inside  that  envelope,  directed  to  old 
Gatliffe,  side  by  side  with  a  copy  of  the  letter  directed  to  the  editor 
of  the  local  paper  ?  Suppose  my  friend  should  be  instructed  to  open 
the  envelope,  and  take  the  letters  to  their  right  address,  if  I  don't 
appear  to  claim  them  from  him  this  evening  ?  In  short,  my  dear 
sir,  suppose  you  were  born  yesterday,  and  suppose  I  wasn't  ?"  says 
Mr.  Davager,  and  winks  at  me  again. 

He  didn't  take  me  by  surprise,  for  I  never  expected  that  he  had 


56  AFTER    DARK. 

the  letter  about  him.  I  made  a  pretense  of  being  very  much  taken 
aback,  and  of  being  quite  ready  to  give  in.  We  settled  our  business 
about  delivering  the  letter,  and  handing  over  the  nioney,  in  no  time. 
I  was  to  draw  out  a  document,  which  he  was  to  sign.  He  knew  the 
document  was  stuff  and  nonsense,  just  as  well  as  I  did,  and  told  me 
I  was  only  proposing  it  to  swell  my  client's  bill.  Sharp  as  he  was, 
he  was  wrong  there.  The  document  was  not  to  be  drawn  out  to 
gain  money  from  Mr.  Frank,  but  to  gain  time  from  Mr.  Davager. 
It  served  me  as  an  excuse  to  put  off  the  payment  of  the  five  hun- 
dred pounds  till  three  o'clock  on  the  Tuesday  afternoon.  The 
Tuesday  morning  Mr.  Davager  said  he  should  devote  to  his  amuse- 
ment, and  asked  me  what  sights  were  to  be  seen  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  town.  When  I  had  told  him,  he  pitched  his  tooth-pick 
into  my  grate,  yawned,  and  went  out. 

I  rang  the  bell  once — waited  till  he  had  passed  the  window — and 
then  looked  after  Tom.  There  was  my  jewel  of  a  boy  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street,  just  setting  his  top  going  in  the  most  playful 
manner  possible  !  Mr.  Davager  walked  away  up  the  street  toward 
the  market-place.  Tom  whipped  his  top  up  the  street  toward  the 
market-place  too. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  came  back,  with  all  his  evidence  col- 
lected in  a  beautifully  clear  and  compact  state.  Mr.  Davager  had 
walked  to  a  public-house  just  outside  the  town,  in  a  lane  leading  to 
the  high-road.  On  a  beneh  outside  the  public-house  there  sat  a 
man  smoking.  He  said  "  All  right  ?"  and  gave  a  letter  to  Mr.  Dav- 
ager, who  answered  "All  right!"  and  walked  back  to  the  inn.  In 
the  hall  he  ordered  hot  rum-and-water,  cigars,  slippers,  and  a  fire  to 
be  lit  in  his  room.  After  that  he  went  up  stairs,  and  Tom  came 
away. 

I  now  saw  my  road  clear  before  me — not  very  far  on,  but  still 
clear.  I  had  housed  the  letter,  in  all  probability  for  that  night,  at 
the  Gatliffe  Arms.  After  tipping  Tom,  I  gave  him  directions  to 
play  about  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  refresh  himself  when  he  was 
tired  at  the  tart -shop  opposite,  eating  as  much  as  he  pleased,  on 
the  understanding  that  he  crammed  all  the  time  with  his  eye  on  the 
window.  If  Mr.  Davager  went  out,  or  Mr.  Davager's  friend  called 
on  him,  Tom  was  to  let  me  know.  He  was  also  to  take  a  little  note 
from  me  to  the  head  chamber-maid — an  old  friend  of  mine — asking 
her  to  step  over  to  my  office,  on  a  private  matter  of  business,  as  soon 
as  her  work  was  done  for  that  night.  After  settling  these  little 
matters,  having  half  an  hour  to  spare,  I  turned  to  and  did  myself  a 
bloater  at  the  office  fire,  and  had  a  drop  of  gin-and-water  hot,  and 
felt  comparatively  happy. 

When  the  head  chamber-maid  came,  it  turned  out,  as  good  luck 
would  have  it,  that  Mr,  Davager  had  drawn  her  attention  rather  too 


A   STOLEN   LETTER.  57 

closely  to  his  ugliness,  by  offering  her  a  testimony  of  his  regard  in 
the  shape  of  a  kiss.  I  no  sooner  mentioned  him  than  she  flew  into  a 
passion ;  and  when  I  added,  by  way  of  clinching  the  matter,  that  I 
was  retained  to  defend  the  interests  of  a  very  beautiful  and  deserv- 
ing young  lady  (name  not  referred  to,  of  course)  against  the  most 
cruel  underhand  treachery  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Davager,  the  head 
chamber-maid  was  ready  to  go  any  lengths  that  she  could  safely  to 
serve  my  cause.  In  a  few  words  I  discovered  that  Boots  was  to  call 
Mr.  Davager  at  eight  the  next  morning,  and  was  to  take  his  clothes 

down  stairs  to  brush  as  usual.     If  Mr.  D had  not  emptied  his 

own  pockets  overnight,  we  arranged  that  Boots  was  to  forget  to 
empty  them  for  him,  and  was  to  bring  the  clothes  down  stairs  just 

as  he  found  them.     If  Mr.  D 's  pockets  were  emptied,  then,  of 

course,  it  would  be  necessary  to  transfer  the  searching  process  to 

Mr.  D 's  room.     Under  any  circumstances,  I  was  certain  of  the 

head  chamber-maid;  and  under  any  circumstances  also,  the  head 
chamber-maid  was  certain  of  Boots. 

I  waited  till  Tom  came  home,  looking  very  puffy  and  bilious 
about  the  face ;  but  as  to  his  intellects,  if  any  thing,  rather  sharper 
than  ever.  His  report  was  uncommonly  short  and  pleasant.  The 
inn  was  shutting  up ;  Mr.  Davager  was  going  to  bed  in  rather  a 
drunken  condition ;  Mr.  Davager's  friend  had  never  appeared.  I 
sent  Tom  (properly  instructed  about  keeping  our  man  in  view  all 
the  next  morning)  to  his  shake-down  behind  the  office-desk,  where 
I  heard  him  hiccoughing  half  the  night,  as  even  the  best  boys  will, 
when  overexcited  and  too  full  of  tarts. 

At  half-  past  seven  next  morning,  I  slipped  quietly  into  Boots's 
pantry. 

Down  came  the  clothes.  No  pockets  in  trowsers.  Waistcoat- 
pockets  empty.  Coat-pockets  with  something  in  them.  First, 
handkerchief;  secondly,  bunch  of  keys ;  thirdly,  cigar-case  ;  fourth- 
ly, pocket-book.  Of  course  I  wasn't  such  a  fool  as  to  expect  to  find 
the  letter  there,  but  I  opened  the  pocket-book  with  a  certain  curios- 
ity, notwithstanding. 

Nothing  in  the  two  pockets  of  the  book  but  some  old  advertise- 
ments cut  out  of  newspapers,  a  lock  of  hair  tied  round  with  a  dirty 
bit  of  ribbon,  a  circular  letter  about  a  loan  society,  and  some  copies 
of  verses  not  likely  to  suit  any  company  that  was  not  of  an  extreme- 
ly free  and  easy  description.  On  the  leaves  of  the  pocket-book, 
people's  addresses  scrawled  in  pencil,  and  bets  jotted  down  in  red 
ink.  On  one  leaf,  by  itself,  this  queer  inscription : 
MKM.  5  ALONG.  4  ACROSS." 

I  understood  every  thing  but  those  words  and  figures,  so  of 
course  I  copied  them  out  into  my  own  book.  Then  I  waited  in  the 
pantry  till  Boots  had  brushed  the  clothes,  and  had  taken  them  up 


58  AFTEE  DARK. 

stairs.  His  report  when  he  came  down  was,  that  Mr.  D had 

asked  if  it  was  a  fine  morning.  Being  told  that  it  was,  he  had  or- 
dered breakfast  at  nine,  and  a  saddle-horse  to  be  at  the  door  at  ten, 
to  take  him  to  Grirnwith  Abbey — one  of  the  sights  in  our  neighbor- 
hood which  I  had  told  him  of  the  evening  before. 

"  I'll  be  here,  coming  in  by  the  back  way,  at  half-past  ten,"  says  I 
to  the  head  chamber-maid. 

"  What  for  ?"  says  she. 

"  To  take  the  responsibility  of  making  Mr.  Davager's  bed  off  your 
hands  for  this  morning  only,"  says  I. 

"  Any  more  orders  ?"  says  she. 

"  One  more,"  says  I.  "  I  want  to  hire  Sam  for  the  morning. 
Put  it  down  in  the  order-book  that  he's  to  be  brought  round  to  my 
office  at  ten." 

In  case  you  should  think  Sam  was  a  man,  I'd  better  perhaps  tell 
you  he  was  a  pony.  I'd  made  up  my  mind  that  it  would  be  bene- 
ficial to  Tom's  health,  after  the  tarts,  if  he  took  a  constitutional  air- 
ing on  a  nice  hard  saddle  in  the  direction  of  Grirnwith  Abbey. 

"Any  thing  else  ?"  says  the  head  chamber-maid. 

"  Only  one  more  favor,"  says  I.  "  Would  my  boy  Tom  be  very 
much  in  the  way  if  he  came,  from  now  till  ten,  to  help  with  the 
boots  and  shoes,  and  stood  at  his  work  close  by  this  window  which 
looks  out  on  the  staircase  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  says  the  head  chamber-maid. 

"  Thank  you,"  says  I ;  and  stepped  back  to  my  office  directly. 

When  I  had  sent  Torn  off  to  help  with  the  boots  and  shoes,  I  re- 
viewed the  whole  case  exactly  as  it  stood  at  that  time. 

There  were  three  things  Mr.  Davager  might  do  with  the  letter. 
He  might  give  it  to  his  friend  again  before  ten — in  which  case  Tom 
would  most  likely  see  the  said  friend  on  the  stairs.  He  might  take 
it  to  his  friend,  or  to  some  other  friend,  after  ten  —  in  which  case 
Tom  was  ready  to  follow  him  on  Sam  the  pony.  And,  lastly,  he 
might  leave  it  hidden  somewhere  in  his  room  at  the  inn — in  which 
case  I  was  all  ready  for  him  with  a  search-warrant  of  my  own  grant- 
ing, under  favor  always  of  my  friend  the  head  ch amber -rnaid.  So 
far  I  had  my  business  arrangements  all  gathered  up  nice  and  com- 
pact in  my  own  hands.  Only  two  things  bothered  me;  the  terrible 
shortness  of  the  time  at  my  disposal,  in  case  I  failed  in  my  first  ex- 
periments, for  getting  hold  of  the  letter,  and  that  queer  inscription 
which  I  had  copied  out  of  the  pocket-book, 

"  MEM.  5  ALONG.    4  ACROSS." 

It  was  the  measurement  most  likely  of  something,  and  he  was 
afraid  of  forgetting  it ;  therefore  it  was  something  important. 
Query — something  about  himself?  Say  "5"  (inches)  "along" — he 
doesn't  wear  a  wig.  Say  "5"  (feet)  "along" — it  can't  be  coat, 


A    STOLEN    LETTER.  59 

waistcoat,  trowsers,  or  under-clothing.  Say  "  5  "  (yards)  "  along  "- 
it  can't  be  any  thing  about  himself,  unless  he  wears  round  his  body 
the  rope  that  he's  sure  to  be  hanged  with  one  of  these  days.  Then 
it  is  not  something  about  himself.  What  do  I  know  of  that  is  im- 
portant to  him  besides  ?  I  know  of  nothing  but  the  Letter.  Can 
the  memorandum  be  connected  with  that  ?  Say,  yes.  What  do  "  5 
along  "  and  "  4  across  "  mean,  then  ?  The  measurement  of  some- 
thing he  carries  about  with  him?  or  the  measurement  of  something 
in  his  room?  I  could  get  pretty  satisfactorily  to  myself  as  far  as 
that ;  but  I  could  get  no  further. 

Tom  came  back  to  the  office,  and  reported  him  mounted  for  his 
ride.  His  friend  had  never  appeared.  I  sent  the  boy  off,  with  his 
proper  instructions,  on  Sam's  back — wrote  an  encouraging  letter  to 
Mr.  Frank  to  keep  him  quiet — then  slipped  into  the  inn  by  the  back 
way  a  little  before  half-past  ten.  The  head  chamber-maid  gave  me 
a  signal  when  the  landing  was  clear.  I  got  into  his  room  without 
a  soul  but  her  seeing  me,  and  locked  the  door  immediately. 

The  case  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  simplified  now.  Either  Mr. 
Davager  had  ridden  out  with  the  letter  about  him,  or  he  had  left  it 
in  some  safe  hiding-place  in  his  room.  I  suspected  it  to  be  in  his 
room,  for  a  reason  that  will  a  little  astonish  you  —  his  trunk,  his 
dressing -case,  and  all  the  drawers  and  cupboards,  were  left  open. 
I  knew  my  customer,  and  I  thought  this  extraordinary  carelessness 
on  his  part  rather  suspicious. 

Mr.  Davager  had  taken  one  of  the  best  bedrooms  at  the  Gatliffe 
Anns.  Floor  carpeted  all  over,  walls  beautifully  papered,  four- 
poster,  and  general  furniture  first-rate.  I  searched,  to  begin  with, 
on  the  usual  plan,  examining  every  thing  in  every  possible  way,  and 
taking  more  than  an  hour  about  it.  No  discovery.  Then  I  pulled 
out  a  caq>enter's  rule  which  I  had  brought  with  me.  Was  there 
any  thing  in  the  room  which — either  in  inches,  feet,  or  yards — an- 
swered to  "  5  along "  and  "  4  across  ?"  Nothing.  I  put  the  rule 
l>ack  in  my  pocket  —  measurement  was  no  good,  evidently.  Was 
there  any  thing  in  the  room  that  would  count  up  to  5  one  way  and 
4  another,  seeing  that  nothing  would  measure  up  to  it  ?  I  had  got 
obstinately  persuaded  by  this  time  that  the  letter  must  be  in  the 
room — principally  because  of  the  trouble  I  had  had  in  looking  after 
it.  And  persuading  myself  of  that,  I  took  it  into  my  head  next, 
just  as  obstinately,  that  "5  along"  and  "4  across"  must  be  the 
right  clue  to  find  the  letter  by — principally  because  I  hadn't  left 
myself,  after  all  my  searching  and  thinking,  even  so  much  as  the 
ghost  of  another  guide  to  go  by.  "  5  along  " — where  could  I  count 
five  along  the  room,  in  any  part  of  it  ? 

Not  on  the  paper.  The  pattern  there  was  pillars  of  trellis-work 
and  flowers,  inclosing  a  plain  green  ground — only  four  pillars  along 


60  AFTER  DARK. 

the  wall  and  only  two  across.  The  furniture  ?  There  were  not  five 
chairs  or  five  separate  pieces  of  any  furniture  in  the  room  altogeth- 
er. The  fringes  that  hung  from  the  cornice  of  the  bed  ?  Plenty  of 
them,  at  any  rate !  Up  I  jumped  on  the  counterpane,  with  my  pen- 
knife in  my  hand.  Every  way  that  "  5  along  "  and  "  4  across  "  could 
be  reckoned  on  those  unlucky  fringes  I  reckoned  on  them — probed 
with  my  penknife  —  scratched  with  my  nails  —  crunched  with  my 
fingers.  No  use ;  not  a  sign  of  a  letter ;  and  the  time  was  getting 
on  —  oh  Lord!  how  the  time  did  get  on  in  Mr.  Davager's  room 
that  morning. 

I  jumped  down  from  the  bed,  so  desperate  at  my  ill  luck  that  I 
hardly  cared  whether  any  body  heard  me  or  not.  Quite  a  little 
cloud  of  dust  rose  at  my  feet  as  they  thumped  on  the  carpet. 

"Hullo!"  thought  I,  "my  friend  the  head  chamber-maid  takes 
it  easy  here.  Nice  state  for  a  carpet  to  be  in,  in  one  of  the  best  bed- 
rooms at  the  Gatliffe  Arms."  Carpet !  I  had  been  jumping  up  on 
the  bed,  and  staring  up  at  the  walls,  but  I  had  never  so  much  as 
given  a  glance  down  at  the  carpet.  Think  of  me  pretending  to  be 
a  lawyer,  and  not  knowing  how  to  look  low  enough  ! 

The  carpet !  It  had  been  a  stout  article  in  its  time ;  had  evident- 
ly began  in  a  drawing-room  ;  then  descended  to  a  coffee-room  ;  then 
gone  up  stairs  altogether  to  a  bedroom.  The  ground  was  brown, 
and  the  pattern  was  bunches  of  leaves  and  roses  speckled  over  the 
ground  at  regular  distances.  I  reckoned  up  the  bunches.  Ten 
along  the  room — eight  across  it.  When  I  had  stepped  out  five  one 
way  and  four  the  other,  and  was  down  on  my  knees  on  the  centre 
bunch,  as  true  as  I  sit  on  this  chair  I  could  hear  my  own  heart  beat- 
ing so  loud  that  it  quite  frightened  me. 

I  looked  narrowly  all  over  the  bunch,  and  I  felt  all  over  it  with 
the  ends  of  my  fingers,  and  nothing  came  of  that.  Then  I  scraped 
it  over  slowly  and  gently  with  my  nails.  My  second  finger-nail 
stuck  a  little  at  one  place.  I  parted  the  pile  of  the  carpet  over  that 
place,  and  saw  a  thin  slit  which  had  been  hidden  by  the  pile  being 
smoothed  over  it — a  slit  about  half  an  inch  long,  with  a  little  end 
of  brown  thread,  exactly  the  color  of  the  carpet  ground,  sticking 
out  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  from  the  middle  of  it.  Just  as 
I  laid  hold  of  the  thread  gently,  I  heard  a  footstep  outside  the 
door. 

It  was  only  the  head  chamber-maid.  "  Haven't  you  done  yet  ?" 
she  whispers. 

"  Give  me  two  minutes,"  says  I,  "  and  don't  let  any  body  come 
near  the  door  —  whatever  you  do,  don't  let  any  body  startle  me 
again  by  coming  near  the  door." 

I  took  a  little  pull  at  the  thread,  and  heard  something  rustle.  I 
took  a  longer  pull,  and  out  came  a  piece  of  paper,  rolled  up  tight 


A  STOLEN  LETTBB.  61 

like  those  candle-lighters  that  the  ladies  make.  I  unrolled  it — and, 
by  George  !  there  was  the  letter ! 

The  original  letter !  I  knew  it  by  the  color  of  the  ink.  The  let. 
trr  that  was  worth  five  hundred  pounds  to  me!  It  was  all  that  I 
could  do  to  keep  myself  at  first  from  throwing  my  hat  into  the  air, 
and  hurraing  like  mad.  I  had  to  take  a  chair  and  sit  quiet  in  it 
for  a  minute  or  two,  before  I  could  cool  myself  down  to  my  proper 
business  level.  I  knew  that  I  was  safely  down  again  when  I  found 
myself  pondering  how  to  let  Mr.  Davager  know  that  he  had  been 
done  by  the  innocent  country  attorney  after  all. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  nice  little  irritating  plan  occurred  to  me. 
I  tore  a  blank  leaf  out  of  my  pocket-book,  wrote  on  it  with  my  pen- 
cil, "Change  for  a  five-hundred-pound  note/'  folded  up  the  paper, 
tit  .1  the  thread  to  it,  poked  it  back  into  the  hiding-place,  smoothed 
over  the  pile  of  the  carpet,  and  then  bolted  off  to  Mr.  Frank.  He 
in  his  turn  bolted  off  to  show  the  letter  to  the  young  lady,  who  first 
certified  to  its  genuineness,  then  dropped  it  into  the  fire,  and  then 
took  the  initiative  for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  engagement, 
by  flinging  her  arms  round  his  neck,  kissing  him  with  all  her  might, 
and  going  into  hysterics  in  his  arms.  So  at  least  Mr.  Frank  told 
me,  but  that's  not  evidence.  It  is  evidence,  however,  that  I  saw 
them  married  with  my  own  eyes  on  the  Wednesday;  and  that 
while  they  went  off  in  a  carriage-and-four  to  spend  the  honey- 
moon, I  went  off  on  my  own  legs  to  open  a  credit  at  the  Town  and 
County  Bank  with  a  five-hundred-pound  note  in  my  pocket. 

As  to  Mr.  Davager,  I  can  tell  you  nothing  more  about  him,  except 
what  is  derived  from  hearsay  evidence,  which  is  always  unsatisfac- 
tory evidence,  even  in  a  lawyer's  mouth. 

My  inestimable  boy,  Tom,  although  twice  kicked  off  by  Sam  the 
pony,  never  lost  hold  of  the  bridle,  and  kept  his  man  in  sight  from 
first  to  last.  He  had  nothing  particular  to  report,  except  that  on 
the  way  out  to  the  Abbey  Mr.  Davager  had  stopped  at  the  public- 
house,  had  spoken  a  word  or  two  to  his  friend  of  the  night  before, 
and  had  handed  him  what  looked  like  a  bit  of  paper.  This  was  no 
doubt  a  clue  to  the  thread  that  held  the  letter,  to  be  used  in  case  of 
accidents.  In  every  other  respect  Mr.  D.  had  ridden  out  and  ridden 
in  like  an  ordinary  sight-seer.  Tom  reported  him  to  me  as  having 
dismounted  at  the  hotel  about  two.  At  half-past  I  locked  my  office 
door,  nailed  a  card  under  the  knocker  with  "  not  at  home  till  to- 
morrow "  written  on  it,  and  retired  to  a  friend's  house  a  mile  or  so 
out  of  the  town  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Mr.  Davager,  I  have  been  since  given  to  understand,  left  the  Gat- 
liffe  Anns  that  same  night  with  his  best  clothes  on  his  back,  and 
with  all  the  valuable  contents  of  his  dressing-case  in  his  pockets. 
I  am  not  in  a  condition  to  state  whether  he  ever  went  through  the 


62  AFTER   DAKK. 

form  of  asking  for  his  bill  or  not ;  but  I  can  positively  testify  that 
he  never  paid  it,  and  that  the  effects  left  in  his  bedroom  did  not  pay 
it  either.  When  I  add  to  these  fragments  of  evidence  that  he  and  I 
have  never  met  (luckily  for  me,  you  will  say)  since  I  jockeyed  him  • 
out  of  his  bank-note,  I  have  about  fulfilled  my  implied  contract  as 
maker  of  a  statement  with  you,  sir,  as  hearer  of  a  statement.  Ob- 
serve the  expression,  will  you  ?  I  said  it  was  a  Statement  before  I 
began ;  and  I  say  it's  a  Statement  now  I've  done.  I  defy  you  to 
prove  it's  a  Story  !  How  are  you  getting  on  with  my  portrait  ?  I 
like  you  very  well,  Mr.  Artist ;  but  if  you  have  been  taking  advan- 
tage of  my  talking  to  shirk  your  work,  as  sure  as  you're  alive  I'll 
split  upon  you  to  the  Town  Council ! 

I  attended  a  great  many  times  at  my  queer  sitter's  house  before 
his  likeness  was  completed.  To  the  last  he  was  dissatisfied  with 
the  progress  I  made.  Fortunately  for  me,  the  Town  Council  ap- 
proved of  the  portrait  when  it  was  done.  Mr.  Boxsious,  however,  ob- 
jected to  them  as  being  much  too  easy  to  please.  He  did  not  dis- 
pute the  fidelity  of  the  likeness,  but  he  asserted  that  I  had  not  cov- 
ered the  canvas  with  half  paint  enough  for  my  money.  To  this  day 
(for  he  is  still  alive),  he  describes  me  to  all  inquiring  friends  as 
"  The  Painter-Man  who  jockeyed  the  Town  Council." 


PEOLOGUK  TO  THE  THIRD  STORY.  63 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  THIRD  STORY. 

IT  was  a  sad  day  for  me  when  Mr.  Lanfray,  of  Rockleigh  Place, 
discovering  that  his  youngest  daughter's  health  required  a  warm 
climate,  removed  from  his  English  establishment  to  the  South  of 
France.  Roving  from  place  to  place,  as  I  am  obliged  to  do,  though 
I  make  many  acquaintances,  I  keep  but  few  friends.  The  nature  of 
my  calling  is,  I  am  quite  aware,  mainly  answerable  for  this.  Peo- 
ple can  not  be  blamed  for  forgetting  a  man  who,  on  leaving  their 
houses,  never  can  tell  them  for  certain  when  he  is  likely  to  be  in 
their  neighborhood  again. 

Mr.  Lanfray  was  one  of  the  few  exceptional  persons  who  always 
remembered  me.  I  have  proofs  of  his  friendly  interest  in  my  wel- 
fare in  the  shape  of  letters  which  I  treasure  with  grateful  care. 
The  last  of  these  is  an  invitation  to  his  house  in  the  South  of  France. 
There  is  little  chance  at  present  of  my  being  able  to  profit  by  his 
kindness  ;  but  I  like  to  read  his  invitation  from  time  to  time,  for  it 
makes  me  fancy,  in  my  happier  moments,  that  I  may  one  day  really 
be  able  to  accept  it. 

My  introduction  to  this  gentleman,  in  my  capacity  of  portrait- 
painter,  did  not  promise  much  for  me  in  a  professional  point  of 
view.  I  was  invited  to  Rockleigh — or  to  "The  Place,"  as  it  was 
more  frequently  called  among  the  people  of  the  county — to  take  a 
likeness  in  water-colors,  on  a  small  scale,  of  the  French  governess 
who  lived  with  Mr.  Lanfray's  daughters.  My  first  idea  on  hearing 
of  this  was,  that  the  governess  was  about  to  leave  her  situation,  and 
that  her  pupils  wished  to  have  a  memorial  of  her  in  the  shape  of  a 
portrait.  Subsequent  inquiry,  however,  informed  me  that  I  was  in 
error.  It  was  the  eldest  of  Mr.  Lanfray's  daughters,  who  was  on  the 
point  of  leaving  the  house  to  accompany  her  husband  to  India ;  and 
it  was  for  her  that  the  portrait  had  been  ordered,  as  a  home  remem- 
brance of  her  best  and  dearest  friend.  Besides  these  particulars,  I 
discovered  that  the  governess,  though  still  called  "mademoiselle," 
was  an  old  lady ;  that  Mr.  Lanfray  had  been  introduced  to  her  many 
years  since  in  France,  after  the  death  of  his  wife ;  that  she  was  ab- 
solute mistress  in  the  house ;  and  that  her  three  pupils  had  always 
looked  up  to  her  as  a  second  mother,  from  the  time  when  their  fa- 
ther first  placed  them  under  her  charge. 

These  scraps  of  information  made  me  rather  anxious  to  see  Made- 
moiselle Clairfait,  the  governess. 


64  AFTER   DARK. 

On  the  day  appointed  for  my  attendance  at  the  comfortable 
country  house  of  Rockleigh,  I  was  detained  on  the  road,  and  did 
not  arrive  at  my  destination  until  late  in  the  evening.  The  wel- 
come accorded  to  me  by  Mr.  Lanfray  gave  an  earnest  of  the  unvary- 
ing kindness  that  I  was  to  experience  at  his  hands  in  after-life.  I 
•was  received  at  once  on  equal  terms,  as  if  I  had  been  a  friend  of  the 
family,  and  was  presented  the  same  evening  to  my  host's  daughters. 
They  were  not  merely  three  elegant  and  attractive  young  women, 
but — what  means  much  more  than  that— three  admirable  subjects 
for  pictures,  the  bride  particularly.  Her  young  husband  did  not 
strike  me  much  at  first  sight ;  he  seemed  rather  shy  and  silent. 
After  I  had  been  introduced  to  him,  I  looked  round  for  Made- 
moiselle Clairfait,  but  she  was  not  present ;  and  I  was  soon  afterward 
informed  by  Mr.  Lanfray  that  she  always  spent  the  latter  part  of  the 
evening  in  her  own  room. 

At  the  breakfast-table  the  next  morning,  I  again  looked  for  my 
sitter,  and  once  more  in  vain.  "  Mamma,  as  we  call  her,"  said  one 
of  the  ladies,  "  is  dressing  expressly  for  her  picture,  Mr.  Kerby.  I 
hope  you  are  not  above  painting  silk,  lace,  and  jewelry.  The  dear 
old  lady,  who  is  perfection  in  every  thing  else,  is  perfection  also  in 
dress,  and  is  bent  on  being  painted  in  all  her  splendor." 

This  explanation  prepared  me  for  something  extraordinary ;  but 
I  found  that  my  anticipations  had  fallen  far  below  the  reality  when 
Mademoiselle  Clairfait  at  last  made  her  appearance,  and  announced 
that  she  was  ready  to  sit  for  her  portrait. 

Never  before  or  since  have  I  seen  such  perfect  dressing  and  such 
active  old  age  in  combination.  "  Mademoiselle "  was  short  and 
thin ;  her  face  was  perfectly  white  all  over,  the  skin  being  puckered 
up  in  an  infinite  variety  of  the  smallest  possible  wrinkles.  Her 
bright  black  eyes  were  perfect  marvels  of  youthfulness  and  vivacity. 
They  sparkled,  and  beamed,  and  ogled,  and  moved  about  over  every 
body  and  every  thing  at  such  a  rate,  that  the  plain  gray  hair  above 
them  looked  unnaturally  venerable,  and  the  wrinkles  below  an  art- 
ful piece  of  masquerade  to  represent  old  age.  As  for  her  dress,  I 
remember  few  harder  pieces  of  work  than  the  painting  of  it.  She 
wore  a  silver-gray  silk  gown,  that  seemed  always  flashing  out  into 
some  new  light  whenever  she  moved.  It  was  as  stiff  as  a  board, 
and  rustled  like  the  wind.  Her  head,  neck,  and  bosom  were  en- 
veloped in  clouds  of  the  airiest-looking  lace  I  ever  saw,  disposed 
about  each  part  of  her  with  the  most  exquisite  grace  and  propriety, 
and  glistening  at  all  sorts  of  unexpected  places  with  little  fairy-like 
toys  in  gold  and  precious  stones.  On  her  right  wrist  she  wore  three 
small  bracelets,  with  the  hair  of  her  three  pupils  worked  into  them ; 
and  on  her  left,  one  large  bracelet  with  a  miniature  let  in  over  the 
clasp.  She  had  a  dark  crimson-and-gold  scarf  thrown  coquettishly 


PROLOGUE   TO  THE   THIRD   STORY.  65 

over  her  shoulders,  and  held  a  lovely  little  feather-fan  in  her  hand. 
When  she  first  presented  herself  before  me  in  this  costume,  with  a 
brisk  courtesy  and  a  bright  smile,  tilling  the  room  with  perfume,  and 
gracefully  flirting  the  feather-fan,  I  lost  all  confidence  in  my  powers 
as  a  portrait-painter  immediately.  The  brightest  colors  in  my  box 
looked  dowdy  and  dim,  and  I  myself  felt  like  an  unwashed,  un- 
brushed,  unpresentable  sloven. 

"  Tell  me,  my  angels,"  said  mademoiselle,  apostrophizing  her  pu- 
pils in  the  prettiest  foreign  English,  "am  I  the  cream  of  all  creams 
this  morning?  Do  I  carry  my  sixty  years  resplendently  ?  Will  the 
savages  in  India,  when  my  own  love  exhibits  my  picture  among 
them,  say,  '  Ah  !  smart !  smart !  this  was  a  great  dandy  ?'  And  the 
gentleman,  the  skillful  artist,  whom  it  is  even  more  an  honor  than 
a  happiness  to  meet,  does  he  approve  of  me  for  a  model  ?  Does  Ue 
find  me  pretty  and  paintable  from  top  to  toe  ?"  Here  she  dropped 
me  another  brisk  courtesy,  placed  herself  in  a  languishing  position 
in  the  sitter's  chair,  and  asked  us  all  if  she  looked  like  a  shepherd- 
ess in  Dresden  china. 

The  young  ladies  burst  out  laughing,  and  mademoiselle,  as  gay 
as  any  of  them  and  a  great  deal  shriller,  joined  in  the  merriment. 
Never  before  had  I  contended  with  any  sitter  half  as  restless  as  that 
wonderful  old  lady.  No  sooner  had  I  begun  than  she  jumped  out 
of  the  chair,  and  exclaiming,  "Grand  Dieu!  I  have  forgotten  to  em- 
brace my  angels  this  morning,"  ran  up  to  her  pupils,  raised  herself 
on  tiptoe  before  them  in  quick  succession,  put  the  two  first  fingers 
of  each  hand  under  their  ears,  kissed  them  lightly  on  both  cheeks, 
and  was  back  again  in  the  chair  before  an  English  governess  could 
have  said,  "  Good-morning,  my  dears,  I  hope  you  all  slept  well  last 
night." 

I  began  again.  Up  jumped  mademoiselle  for  the  second  time, 
and  tripped  across  the  room  to  a  cheval-glass.  "  No!"  I  heard  her 
say  to  herself,  "  I  have  not  discomposed  my  head  in  kissing  my  an- 
gels. I  may  come  back  and  pose  for  my  picture." 

Back  she  came.  I  worked  from  her  for  five  minutes  at  the  most. 
"  Stop  !"  cries  mademoiselle,  jumping  up  for  the  third  time  ;  "I  must 
see  how  this  skillful  artist  is  getting  on.  Grand  Dieu  !  why  he  has 
done  nothing !" 

For  the  fourth  time  I  began,  and  for  the  fourth  time  the  old  lady 
started  out  of  her  chair.  "  Now  I  must  repose  myself,"  said  made- 
moiselle, walking  lightly  from  end  to  end  of  the  room,  and  hum- 
ming a  French  air,  by  way  of  taking  a  rest, 

I  was  at  my  wit's  end,  and  the  young  ladies  saw  it.  They  all  sur- 
rounded my  unmanageable  sitter,  and  appealed  to  her  compassion 
for  me.  "  Certainly  !"  said  mademoiselle,  expressing  astonishment 
by  flinging  up  both  her  hands  with  all  the  fingers  spread  out  in  the 

3 


66  AFTER   DARK. 

air.    "  But  why  apostrophize  me  thus  ?    I  am  here,  I  am  ready,  I  am 
at  the  service  of  this  skillful  artist.     Why  apostrophize  me  ?" 

A  fortunate  chance  question  of  mine  steadied  her  for  some  time. 
I  inquired  if  I  was  expected  to  draw  the  whole  of  my  sitter's  figure 
as  well  as  her  face.  Mademoiselle  replied  by  a  comic  scream  of  in- 
dignation. If  I  was  the  brave  and  gifted  man  for  whom  she  took 
me,  I  ought  to  be  ready  to  perish  rather  than  leave  out  an  inch  of 
her  anywhere.  Dress  was  her  passion,  and  it  would  be  an  outrage 
on  her  sentiments  if  I  did  not  do  full  justice  to  every  thing  she  had 
on — to  her  robe,  to  her  lace,  to  her  scarf,  to  her  fan,  to  her  rings, 
her  jewels,  and,  above  all,  to  her  bracelets.  I  groaned  in  spirit  at 
the  task  before  me,  but  made  my  best  bow  of  acquiescence.  Made- 
moiselle was  not  to  be  satisfied  by  a  mere  bow ;  she  desired  the 
pleasure  of  specially  directing  my  attention,  if  I  would  be  so  amia- 
ble as  to  get  up  and  approach  her,  to  one  of  her  bracelets  in  partic- 
ular— the  bracelet  with  the  miniature,  on  her  left  wrist.  It  had  been 
the  gift  of  the  dearest  friend  she  ever  had,  and  the  miniature  rep- 
resented that  friend's  beloved  and  beautiful  face.  Could  I  make  a 
tiny,  tiny  copy  of  that  likeness  in  my  drawing  ?  Would  I  only  be 
so  obliging  as  to  approach  for  one  little  moment,  and  see  if  such  a 
thing  were  possible  ? 

I  obeyed  unwillingly  enough,  expecting,  from  mademoiselle's  ex 
pression,  to  see  a  commonplace  portrait  of  some  unfortunate  admirer 
whom  she  had  treated  with  unmerited  severity  in  the  days  of  her 
youth.  To  my  astonishment,  I  found  that  the  miniature,  which  was 
very  beautifully  painted,  represented  a  woman's  face — a  young  wom- 
an with  kind,  sad  eyes,  pale,  delicate  cheeks,  light  hair,  and  such  a 
pure,  tender,  lovely  expression,  that  I  thought  of  Raphael's  Madon- 
nas the  moment  I  looked  at  her  portrait. 

The  old  lady  observed  the  impression  which  the  miniature  pro- 
duced on  me,  and  nodded  her  head  in  silence.  "  What  a  beautiful, 
innocent,  pure  face  !"  I  said. 

Mademoiselle  Clairfait  gently  brushed  a  particle  of  dust  from  the 
miniature  with  her  handkerchief,  and  kissed' it.  "I  have  three  an- 
gels still  left,"  she  said,  looking  at  her  pupils.  "  They  console  me 
for  the  fourth,  who  has  gone  to  heaven." 

She  patted  the  face  on  the  miniature  gently  with  her  little,  with- 
ered, white  fingers,  as  if  it  had  been  a  living  thing.  "Sister  Rose!" 
she  sighed  to  herself;  then,  looking  up  again  at  me,  said,  "I  should 
like  it  put  into  my  portrait,  sir,  because  I  have  always  M7orn  it  since 
I  was  a  young  woman,  for  '  Sister  Rose's '  sake." 

The  sudden  change  in  her  manner,  from  the  extreme  of  flighty 
gayety  to  the  extreme  of  quiet  sadness,  would  have  looked  theat- 
rical in  a  woman  of  any  other  nation.  It  seemed,  however,  perfectly 
natural  and  appropriate  in  her.  I  went  back  to  my  drawing,  rather 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE   THIRD   STORY.  67 

perplexed.  Who  was  "  Sister  Rose  ?"  Not  one  of  the  Lanfray  fam- 
ily, apparently.  The  composure  of  the  young  ladies  when  the  name 
was  mentioned  showed  plainly  enough  that  the  original  of  the  min- 
iature had  been  no  relation  of  theirs. 

I  tried  to  stifle  my  curiosity  on  the  subject  of  Sister  Rose,  by  giv- 
ing myself  entirely  to  my  work.  For  a  full  half-hour  Mademoiselle 
Clairfait  sat  quietly  before  me,  with  her  hands  crossed  on  her  lap, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  bracelet.  This  happy  alteration  enabled 
inr  to  do  something  toward  completing  the  outline  of  her  face  and 
figure.  I  might  even,  under  fortunate  circumstances,  have  van- 
quished the  preliminary  difficulties  of  my  task  at  one  effort ;  but 
the  fates  were  against  me  that  day.  While  I  was  still  working  rap- 
idly and  to  my  satisfaction,  a  servant  knocked  at  the  door  to  an- 
nounce luncheon,  and  mademoiselle  lightly  roused  herself  from  her 
M TJI uis  reflection,  and  her  quiet  position  in  a  moment. 

"  Ah  me  !"  she  said,  turning  the  miniature  round  on  her  wrist  till 
it  was  out  of  sight.  "  What  animals  we  are,  after  all !  The  spirit- 
ual part  of  us  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  stomach.  My  heart  is  absorb- 
ed by  tender  thoughts,  yet  I  am  not  the  less  ready  for  luncheon ! 
Come,  my  children  and  fellow-mortals.  Allans  cultiver  notre  jardin!" 

With  this  quotation  from  "Candide,"  plaintively  delivered,  the 
old  lady  led  the  way  out  of  the  room,  and  was  followed  by  her 
younger  pupils.  The  eldest  sister  remained  behind  for  a  moment, 
and  reminded  me  that  the  lunch  was  ready. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  found  the  dear  old  soul  rather  an  unruly 
sitter,"  she  said,  noticing  the  look  of  dissatisfaction  with  which  I 
was  regarding  my  drawing.  "But  she  will  improve  as  you  go  on. 
She  has  done  better  already  for  the  last  half-hour,  has  she  not  ?" 

"  Much  better,"  I  answered.  "  My  admiration  of  the  miniature  on 
the  bracelet  seemed — I  suppose,  by  calling  up  some  old  associations 
—to  have  a  strangely  soothing  effect  on  Mademoiselle  Clairfait." 
.  "Ah  yes  !  only  remind  her  of  the  original  of  that  portrait,  and  you 
change  her  directly,  whatever  she  may  have  been  saying  or  doing 
the  moment  before.  Sometimes  she  talks  of  Sister  Rose,  and  of  all 
that  she  went  through  in  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution,  by  the 
hour  together.  It  is  wonderfully  interesting — at  least  we  all  think 
so.'1 

"  I  presume  that  the  lady  described  as  '  Sister  Rose'  was  a  relation 
of  Mademoiselle  Clairfait's  ?M 

"  No,  only  a  very  dear  friend.  Mademoiselle  Clairfait  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  silk -mercer,  once  established  at  Chalons-sur-Marne.  Her 
father  happened  to  give  an  asylum  in  his  office  to  a  lonely  old  man, 
to  whom  'Sister  Rose'  and  her  brother  had  been  greatly  indebted 
in  the  revolutionary  time;  and  out  of  a  train  of  circumstances  con- 
nected with  that,  the  first  acquaintance  between  mademoiselle  and 


68  AFTER   DARK. 

the  friend  whose  portrait  she  wears,  arose.  After  the  time  of  hef 
father's  bankruptcy,  and  for  many  years  before  we  were  placed  un- 
der her  charge,  our  good  old  governess  lived  entirely  with  '  Sister 
Rose '  and  her  brother.  She  must  then  have  heard  all  the  interest- 
ing things  that  she  has  since  often  repeated  to  my  sisters  and  my- 
self." 

"  Might  I  suggest,"  said  I,  after  an  instant's  consideration,  "  that 
the  best  way  to  give  me  a  fair  chance  of  studying  Mademoiselle 
Clairfait's  face  at  the  next  sitting,  would  be  to  lead  her  thoughts 
again  to  that  quieting  subject  of  the  miniature,  and  to  the  events 
which  the  portrait  recalls  ?  It  is  really  the  only  plan,  after  what  I 
have  observed  this  morning,  that  I  can  think  of  for  enabling  me  to 
do  myself  and  my  sitter  justice." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so,"  replied  the  lady ;  "  for  the 
execution  of  your  plan,  by  me  or  by  my  sisters,  will  be  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  A  word  from  us  at  any  time  will  set  mademoi- 
selle thinking,  and  talking  too,  of  the  friend  of  her  youthful  days. 
Depend  on  our  assistance  so  far.-  And  now  let  me  show  you  the 
way  to  the  luncheon-table." 

Two  good  results  followed  the  ready  rendering  of  the  help  I  had 
asked  from  my  host's  daughters.  I  succeeded  with  my  portrait  of 
Mademoiselle  Clairfait,  and  I  heard  the  story  which  occupies  the  fol- 
lowing pages. 

In  the  case  of  the  preceding  narratives,  I  have  repeated  what  was 
related  to  me,  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  very  words  of  my  sitters. 
In  the  case  of  this  third  story,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  proceed 
upon  the  same  plan.  The  circumstances  of  "  Sister  Rose's  "  event- 
ful history  were  narrated  to  me  at  different  times,  and  in  the  most 
fragmentary  and  discursive  manner.  Mademoiselle  Clairfait  char- 
acteristically mixed  up  with  the  direct  interest  of  her  story,  not  only 
references  to  places  and  people  which  had  no  recognizable  connec- 
tion with  it,  but  outbursts  of  passionate  political  declamation,  on  the 
extreme  liberal  side — to  say  nothing  of  little  tender  apostrophes  to 
her  beloved  friend,  which  sounded  very  prettily  as  she  spoke  them, 
but  which  would  lose  their  effect  altogether  by  being  transferred  to 
paper.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  tell  the 
story  in  my  own  way — rigidly  adhering  to  the  events  of  it  exactly 
as  they  were  related ;  and  never  interfering  on  my  own  responsibil- 
ity except  to  keep  order  in  the  march  of  the  incidents,  and  to  pre- 
sent them,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  variously  as  well  as  interesting- 
ly to  the  reader.  « 


&1STEB  KOBE.  69 


THE  FRENCH  GOVERNESS'S  STORY 

or 

SISTER    ROSE. 


PART  FIRST.— CHAPTER  I. 

"WELL,  Monsieur  Guillaume,  what  is  the  news  this  evening  ?" 

u  None  that  I  know  of,  Monsieur  Justin,  except  that  Mademoiselle 
Rose  is  to  be  married  to-morrow." 

"  Much  obliged,  my  respectable  old  friend,  for  so  interesting  and 
unexpected  a  reply  to  my  question.  Considering  that  I  am  the  val- 
et of  .Monsieur  Danville,  who  plays  the  distinguished  part  of  bride- 
groom in  the  little  wedding  comedy  to  which  you  refer,  I  think  I 
may  assure  you,  without  offense,  that  your  news  "is,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  of  the  stalest  possible  kind.  Take  a  pinch  of  snuff,  Mon- 
sieur Guillaume,  and  excuse  me  if  I  inform  you  that  my  question  re- 
ferred to  public  news,  and  not  to  the  private  affairs  of  the  two  fam- 
ilies whose  household  interests  we  have  the  pleasure  of  promoting." 

••  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean  by  such  a  phrase  as  promot- 
ing household  interests,  Monsieur  Justin.  I  am  the  servant  of  Mon- 
sieur Louis  Trudaine,  who  lives  here  with  his  sister,  Mademoiselle 
Rose.  You  are  the  servant  of  Monsieur  Danville,  whose  excellent 
mother  has  made  up  the  match  for  him  with  my  young  lady.  As 
servants,  both  of  us,  the  pleasantest  news  we  can  have  any  concern 
with  is  news  that  is  connected  with  the  happiness  of  our  masters. 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  public  affairs;  and,  being  one  of  the  old 
school,  I  make  it  niy  main  object  in  life  to  mind  my  own  business. 
If  our  homely  domestic  politics  have  no  interests  for  you,  allow  me 
to  express  my  regret,  and  to  wish  you  a  very  good  evening." 

••  Pardon  me,  my  dear  sir,  I  have  not  the  slightest  respect  for  the 
old  school,  or  the  least  sympathy  with  people  who  only  mind  their 
own  business.  However,  I  accept  your  expressions  of  regret;  I  re- 
ciprocate your  'Good-evening;'  and  I  trust  to  find  you  improved  in 
temper,  dress,  manners,  and  appearance  the  next  time  I  have  the 
honor  of  meeting  you.  Adieu,  Monsieur  Guillaume,  and  Vive  la 

l»HJilt,Ul    .'" 

These  scraps  of  dialogue  were  interchanged  on  a  lovely  summer 
evening  in  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty-nine,  before  the 


70  AFTER    DARK. 

back  door  of  a  small  house  which  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 
about  three  miles  westward  of  the  city  of  Rouen.  The  one  speaker 
was  lean,  old,  crabbed,  and  slovenly ;  the  other  was  plump,  young, 
oily-mannered,  and  dressed  in  the  most  gorgeous  livery  costume  of 
the  period.  The  last  days  of  genuine  dandyism  were  then  rapidly 
approaching  all  over  the  civilized  world;  and  Monsieur  Justin  was, 
in  his  own  way,  dressed  to  perfection,  as  a  living  illustration  of  the 
expiring  glories  of  his  epoch. 

After  the  old  servant  had  left  him,  he  occupied  himself  for  a  few 
minutes  in  contemplating,  superciliously  enough,  the  back  view  of 
the  little  house  before  which  he  stood.  Judging  by  the  windows, 
it  did  not  contain  more  than  six  or  eight  rooms  in  all.  Instead  of 
stables  and  outhouses,  there  was  a  conservatory  attached  to  the 
building  on  one  side,  and  a  low,  long  room,  built  of  wood,  gayly 
painted,  on  the  other.  One  of  the  windows  of  this  room  was  left 
uncurtained,  and  through  it  could  be  seen,  on  a  sort  of  dresser  in- 
side, bottles  filled  with  strangely  -  colored  liquids,  oddly  -  shaped 
utensils  of  brass  and  copper,  one  end  of  a  large  furnace,  and  other 
objects,  which  plainly  proclaimed  that  the  apartment  was  used  as  a 
chemical  laboratory. 

"Think  of  our  bride's  brother  amusing  himself  in  such  a  place  as 
that  with  cooking  drugs  in  saucepans,"  muttered  Monsieur  Justin, 
peeping  into  the  room.  "  I  am  the  least  particular  man  in  the  uni- 
verse, but  I  must  say  I  wish  we  were  not  going  to  be  connected  by 
marriage  with  an  amateur  apothecary.  Pah  !  I  can  smell  the  place 
through  the  window." 

With  these  words  Monsieur  Justin  turned  his  back  on  the  labora- 
tory in  disgust,  and  sauntered  toward  the  cliffs  overhanging  the 
river. 

Leaving  the  garden  attached  to  the  house,  he  ascended  some 
gently  rising  ground  by  a  winding  path.  Arrived  at  the  summit, 
the  whole  view  of  the  Seine  with  its  lovely  green  islands,  its  banks 
fringed  with  trees,  its  gliding  boats,  and  little  scattered  water-side 
cottages,  opened  before  him.  Westward,  where  the  level  country 
appeared  beyond  the  further  bank  of  the  river,  the  landscape  was 
all  aglow  with  the  crimson  of  the  setting  sun.  Eastward,  the  long 
shadows  and  mellow  intervening  lights,  the  red  glory  that  quivered 
on  the  rippling  water,  the  steady  ruby  fire  glowing  on  cottage  win- 
dows that  reflected  the  level  sunlight,  led  the  eye  onward  and  on- 
ward, along  the  windings  of  the  Seine,  until  it  rested  upon  the 
spires,  towers,  and  broadly-massed  houses  of  Rouen,  with  the  wood- 
ed hills  rising  beyond  them  for  background.  Lovely  to  look  on  at 
any  time,  the  view  was  almost  supernaturally  beautiful  now  under 
the  gorgeous  evening  light  that  glowed  up  )n  it.  All  its  attrac- 
tions, however,  were  lost  on  the  valet ,  he  stood  yawning  with  his 


SISTER    ROSE.  71 

hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
hut  >taring  straight  before  him  at  a  lifetle  hollow,  beyond  which  the 
ground  sloped  away  smoothly  to  the  brink  of  the  cliff.  A  bench 
wa«  placed  here,  and  three  persons — an  old  lady,  a  gentleman,  and 
a  young  girl — were  seated  on  it,  watching  the  sunset,  and  by  con- 
sequence turning  their  backs  on  Monsieur  Justin.  Near  them  stood 
two  gentlemen,  also  looking  toward  the  river  and  the  distant  view. 
These  five  figures  attracted  the  valet's  attention,  to  the  exclusion  of 
every  other  object  around  him. 

"  There  they  are  still,"  he  said  to  himself,  discontentedly.  "  Ma- 
dame Danville  in  the  same  place  on  the  seat ;  my  master,  the  bride- 
groom, dutifully  next  to  her ;  Mademoiselle  Rose,  the  bride,  bashful- 
ly next  to  him ;  Monsieur  Trudaine,  the  amateur  apothecary  brother, 
affectionately  next  to  her;  and  Monsieur  Lomaque,  our  queer  land- 
stewanl,  officially  in  waiting  on  the  whole  party.  There  they  all  are 
indeed,  incomprehensibly  wasting  their  time  still  in  looking  at  noth- 
ing !  Yes,"  continued  Monsieur  Justin,  lifting  his  eyes  wearily,  and 
staring  hard,  first  up  the  river  at  Rouen,  then  down  the  river  at  the 
setting  sun;  "yes,  plague  take  them  !  looking  at  nothing,  absolute- 
ly and  positively  at  nothing,  all  this  while." 

Here  Monsieur  Justin  yawned  again,  and,  returning  to  the  gar- 
den, 6at  himself  down  in  an  arbor  and  resignedly  went  to  sleep. 

If  the  valet  had  ventured  near  the  five  persons  whom  he  had  been 
apostrophizing  from  a  distance,  and  if  he  had  been  possessed  of 
some  little  refinement  of  observation,  he  could  hardly  have  failed 
to  remark  that  the  bride  and  bridegroom  of  the  morrow,  and  their 
companions  on  either  side,  were  all,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  under 
the  influence  of  some  secret  restraint,  which  affected  their  conversa- 
tion, their  gestures,  and  even  the  expression  of  their  faces.  Madame 
Danville  —  a  handsome,  richly  -  dressed  old  lady,  with  very  bright 
eyes,  and  a  quick,  suspicious  manner — looked  composedly  and  happi- 
ly enough,  as  long  as  her  attention  was  fixed  on  her  son.  But  when 
she  turned  from  him  toward  the  bride,  a  hardly  perceptible  uneasi- 
ness passed  over  her  face  —  an  uneasiness  which  only  deepened  to 
positive  distrust  and  dissatisfaction  whenever  she  looked  toward 
Mademoiselle  Trudaine's  brother.  In  the  same  way,  her  son.  who 
was  all  smiles  and  happiness  while  he  was  speaking  with  his  future 
wife,  altered  visibly  in  manner  and  look  exactly  as  his  mother  alter- 
ed, whenever  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Trudaine  specially  impressed 
itself  on  his  attention.  Then,  again,  Lomaque,  the  land-steward — 
quiet,  sharp,  skinny  Lomaque,  with  the  submissive  manner,  and  the 
red  rimmed  eyes — never  looked  up  at  his  master's  future  brother-in- 
law  without  looking  away  again  rather  uneasily,  and  thoughtfully 
drilling  holes  in  the  grass  with  his  long  sharp-pointed  cane.  Even 
the  l>ride  herself — the  pretty,  innocent  girl,  with  her  childish  shy- 


72  AFTER   DARK. 

ness  of  manner — seemed  to  be  affected  like  the  others.  Doubt,  if 
not  distress,  overshadowed  her  face  from  time  to  time,  and  the  hand 
which  her  lover  held  trembled  a  little,  and  grew  restless,  when  she 
accidentally  caught  her  brother's  eye. 

Strangely  enough  there  was  nothing  to  repel,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, every  thing  to  attract  in  the  look  and  manner  of  the  person 
whose  mere  presence  seemed  to  exercise  such  a  curiously  constrain- 
ing influence  over  the  wedding-party.  Louis  Trudaine  was  a  re- 
markably handsome  man.  His  expression  was  singularly  kind  and 
gentle ;  his  manner  irresistibly  winning  in  its  frank,  manly  firmness 
and  composure.  His  words,  when  he  occasionally  spoke,  seemed  as 
unlikely  to  give  offense  as  his  looks ;  for  he  only  opened  his  lips  in 
courteous  reply  to  questions  directly  addressed  to  him.  Judging  by 
a  latent  mournfulness  in  the  tones  of  his  voice,  and  by  the  sorrow- 
ful tenderness  which  clouded  his  kind,  earnest  eyes  whenever  they 
rested  on  his  sister,  his  thoughts  were  certainly  not  of  the  happy  or 
the  hopeful  kind.  But  he  gave  them  no  direct  expression;  he  in- 
truded his  secret  sadness,  whatever  it  might  be,  on  no  one  of  his 
companions.  Nevertheless,  modest  and  self -restrained  as  he  was, 
there  was  evidently  some  reproving  or  saddening  influence  in  his 
presence  which  affected  the  spirits  of  every  one  near  him,  and  dark- 
ened the  eve  of  the  wedding  to  bride  and  bridegroom  alike. 

As  the  sun  slowly  sank  in  the  heavens,  the  conversation  flagged 
more  and  more.  After  a  long  silence,  the  bridegroom  was  the  first 
to  start  a  new  subject. 

"  Rose,  love,"  he  said,  "  that  magnificent  sunset  is  a  good  omen 
for  our  marriage ;  it  promises  another  lovely  day  to-morrow." 

The  bride  laughed  and  blushed. 

"  Do  you  really  believe  in  omens,  Charles  ?"  she  said. 

"  My  dear,"  interposed  the  old  lady,  before  her  son  could  answer, 
"  if  Charles  does  believe  in  omens,  it  is  nothing  to  laugh  at.  You 
will  soon  know  better,  when  you  are  his  wife,  than  to  confound 
him,  even  in  the  slightest  things,  with  the  common  herd  of  people. 
All  his  convictions  are  well  founded — so  well,  that  if  I  thought  he 
really  did  believe  in  omens,  I  should  most  assuredly  make  up  my 
mind  to  believe  in  them  too." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,"  Rose  began,  tremulously,  "  I  only 
meant — 

"  My  dear  child,  have  you  so  little  knowledge  of  the  world  as  to 
suppose  that  I  could  be  offended — " 

"  Let  Rose  speak,"  said  the  young  man. 

He  turned  round  petulantly,  almost  with  the  air  of  a  spoiled 
child,  to  his  mother,  as  he  saiS  those  words.  She  had  been  look- 
ing fondly  and  proudly  on  him  the  moment  before.  Now  her  eyes 
wandered  disconcertedly  from  his  face;  she  hesitated  an  instant 


>!MKR    ROSE.  73 

with  a  sudden  confusion  which  seemed  quite  foreign  to  her  charac- 
ter, then  whispered  in  his  ear, 

"  Am  I  to  Manic.  Charles,  for  trying  to  make  her  worthy  of  you  ?" 

Her  son  took  no  notice  of  the  question.  He  only  reiterated 
sharply,"  Let  Hose  speak." 

"  I  really  had  nothing  to  say,"  faltered  the  young  girl,  growing 
more  and  more  confused. 

"  Oh,  but  you  had !" 

There  was  such  an  ungracious  sharpness  in  his  voice,  such  an  out- 
burst of  petulance  in  his  manner  as  he  spoke,  that  his  mother  gave 
him  a  warning  touch  on  the  arm,  and  whispered  "  Hush !" 

Monsieur  Lomaque,  the  land-steward,  and  Monsieur  Trudaine,  the 
brother,  both  glanced  searchingly  at  the  bride,  as  the  words  passed 
the  bridegroom's  lips.  She  seemed  to  be  frightened  and  astonished, 
rather  than  irritated  or  hurt.  A  curious  smile  puckered  up  Lo- 
maqiie's  lean  face,  as  he  looked  demurely  down  on  the  ground,  and 
began  drilling  a  fresh  hole  in  the  turf  with  the  sharp  point  of  his 
cane.  Trudaine  turned  aside  quickly,  and,  sighing,  walked  away  a 
few  paces;  then  came  back,  and  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  Dan- 
ville interrupted  him. 

"  Pardon  me,  Rose,"  he  said ;  "  I  am  so  jealous  of  even  the  ap- 
pearance of  any  want  of  attention  toward  you,  that  I  was  nearly  al- 
lowing myself  to  be  irritated  about  nothing." 

He  kissed  her  hand  very  gracefully  and  tenderly  as  he  made  his 
excuse ;  but  there  was  a  latent  expression  in  his  eye  which  was  at 
variance  with  the  apparent  spirit  of  his  action.  It  was  noticed 
by  nobody  but  observant  and  submissive  Monsieur  Lomaque,  who 
smiled  to  himself  again,  and  drilled  harder  than  ever  at  his  hole  in 
the  grass. 

"I  think  Monsieur  Trudaine  was  about  to  speak,"  said  Madame 
Danville.  "  Perhaps  he  will  have  no  objection  to  let  us  hear  what 
he  was  going  to  say." 

"  None,  madame,"  replied  Trudaine,  politely.  "  I  was  about  to 
take  upon  myself  the  blame  of  Rose's  want  of  respect  for  believers 
in  omens,  by  confessing  that  I  have  always  encouraged  her  to  laugh 
at  superstitions  of  every  kind." 

"  You  a  ridiculer  of  superstitions  ?"  said  Danville,  turning  quickly 
on  him.  "  You,  who  have  built  a  laboratory  ;  you,  who  are  an  am- 
ateur professor  of  the  occult  arts  of  chemistry  —  a  seeker  after  the 
Elixir  of  Life.  On  my  word  of  honor,  you  astonish  me  !" 

There  was  an  ironical  politeness  in  his  voice,  look,  and  manner 
as  he  said  this,  which  his  mother  and  his  land-steward,  Monsieur 
Lomaque,  evidently  knew  how  to  interpret.  The  first  touched  his 
arm  again  and  whispered,  "  Be  careful !"  the  second  suddenly  grew 
serious,  and  left  off  drilling  his  hole  in  the  grass.  Rose  neither 

8* 


74  AFTER    DARK. 

heard  the  warning  of  Madame  Danville,  nor  noticed  the  alteration 
in  Lomaque.  She  was  looking  round  at  her  brother,  and  was  wait- 
ing with  a  bright,  affectionate  smile  to-  hear  his  answer.  He  nod- 
ded, as  if  to  re-assure  her,  before  he  spoke  again  to  Danville. 

"  You  have  rather  romantic  ideas  about  experiments  in  chemis- 
try," he  said,  quietly.  "  Mine  have  so  little  connection  with  what 
you  call  the  occult  arts,  that  all  the  world  might  see  them,  if  all  the 
world  thought  it  worth  while.  The  only  Elixirs  of  Life  that  I  know 
of  are  a  quiet  heart  and  a  contented  mind.  Both  those  I  found, 
years  and  years  ago,  when  Rose  and  I  first  came  to  live  together  in 
the  house  yonder." 

He  spoke  with  a  quiet  sadness  in  his  voice,  which  meant  far  more 
to  his  sister  than  the  simple  words  he  uttered.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears;  she  turned  for  a  moment  from  her  lover,  and  took  her  broth- 
er's hand.  "  Don't  talk,  Louis,  as  if  you  thought  you  were  going 
to  lose  your  sister,  because — "  Her  lips  began  to  tremble,  and  she 
stopped  suddenly. 

"  More  jealous  than  ever  of  your  taking  her  away  from  him !" 
whispered  Madame  Danville  in  her  son's  ear.  "  Hush !  don't,  for 
God's  sake,  take  any  notice  of  it,"  she  added,  hurriedly,  as  he  rose 
from  the  seat  and  faced  Trudaine  with  undisguised  irritation  and 
impatience  in  his  manner.  Before  he  could  speak,  the  old  servant 
Guillaume  made  his  appearance,  and  announced  that  coffee  was 
ready.  Madame  Danville  again  said  "  Hush !"  and  quickly  took 
one  of  his  arms,  while  he  offered  the  other  to  Rose.  "  Charles,"  said 
the  young  girl,  amazedly,  "  how  flushed  your  face  is,  and  how  your 
arm  trembles !" 

He  controlled  himself  in  a  moment,  smiled,  and  said  to  her, 
"  Can't  you  guess  why,  Rose  ?  I  am  thinking  of  to-morrow."  While 
he  was  speaking,  he  passed  close  by  the  land-steward,  on  his  way 
back  to  the  house  with  the  ladies.  The  smile  returned  to  Monsieur 
Lomaque's  lean  face,  and  a  curious  light  twinkled  in  his  red-rim- 
med eyes,  as  he  began  a  fresh  hole  in  the  grass. 

"  Won't  you  go  indoors,  and  take  some  coffee  ?"  asked  Trudaine, 
touching  the  land-steward  on  the  arm. 

Monsieur  Lomaque  started  a  little,  and  left  his  cane  sticking  in 
the  ground.  "  A  thousand  thanks,  monsieur,"  he  said  ;  "  may  I  be 
allowed  to  follow  you  ?" 

"  I  confess  the  beauty  of  the  evening  makes  me  a  little  unwilling 
to  leave  this  place  just  yet." 

"Ah!  the  beauties  of  nature  —  I  feel  them  with  you,  Monsieur 
Trudaine  ;  I  feel  them  here."  Saying  this,  Lomaque  laid  one  hand 
on  his  heart,  and  with  the  other  pulled  his  stick  out  of  the  grass. 
He  had  looked  as  little  at  the  landscape  or  the  setting  sun  as  Mon- 
sieur Justin  himself. 


SISTER   BOSK.  75 

They  sat  down,  side  by  side,  on  the  empty  bench  ;  and  then  there 
followed  an  awkward  pause.  Submissive  Lomaque  was  too  discreet 
to  forget  his  place,  and  venture  on  starting  a  new  topic.  Trudaine 
was  preoccupied,  and  disinclined  to  talk.  It  was  necessary,  how- 
ever, in  common  politeness,  to  say  something.  Hardly  attending 
hiniM-lf  t<>  hi»  <>\VM  words,  he  began  with  a  commonplace  phrase:  "I 
regret.  Monsieur  Lomaque,  that  we  have  not  had  more  opportuni- 
ties of  bettering  our  acquaintance." 

"I  feel  deeply  indebted,"  rejoined  the  land-steward,  "to  the  ad- 
mirable Madame  Danville  for  having  chosen  me  as  her  escort  hither 
from  her  son's  estate  near  Lyons,  and  having  thereby  procured  for 
me  the  honor  of  this  introduction."  Both  Monsieur  Lotnaque's  red- 
rimmed  eyes  were  seized  with  a  sudden  fit  of  winking,  as  he  made 
this  polite  speech.  His  enemies  were  accustomed  to  say  that, 
whenever  he  was  particularly  insincere,  or  particularly  deceitful,  he 
always  took  refuge  in  the  weakness  of  his  eyes,  and  so  evaded  the 
trying  ordeal  of  being  obliged  to  look  steadily  at  the  person  whom 
hr  was  speaking  with. 

"  I  was  pleased  to  hear  you  mention  my  late  father's  name,  at 
dinner,  in  terms  of  high  respect,"  continued  Trudaine,  resolutely 
keeping  up  the  conversation.  "  Did  you  know  him  ?" 

••  I  am  indirectly  indebted  to  your  excellent  father,"  answered  the 
land-steward,  "  for  the  very  situation  which  I  now  hold.  At  a  time 
when  the  good  word  of  a  man  of  substance  and  reputation  was 
needed  to  save  me  from  poverty  and  ruin,  your  father  spoke  that 
word.  Since  then  I  have,  in  my  own  very  small  way,  succeeded  in 
life,  until  I  have  risen  to  the  honor  of  superintending  the  estate  of 
Monsieur  Danville." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  your  way  of  speaking  of  your  present  situation 
rather  surprises  me.  Your  father,  I  believe,  was  a  merchant,  just  as 
Danville's  father  was  a  merchant ;  the  only  difference  between  them 
was.  that  one  failed,  and  the  other  realized  a  large  fortune.  Why 
should  you  speak  of  yourself  as  honored  by  holding  your  present 
place  ?" 

"  Have  you  never  heard  ?"  exclaimed  Lomaque,  with  an  appear- 
ance of  great  astonishment,  "  or  can  you  have  heard,  and  forgotten, 
that  Madame  Danville  is  descended  from  one  of  the  noble  houses  of 
France  ?  Has  she  never  told  you,  as  she  has  often  told  me,  that  she 
condescended  when  she  married  her  late  husband ;  and  that  her 
great  object  in  life  is  to  get  the  title  of  her  family  (years  since  ex- 
tinct in  the  male  line)  settled  on  her  son  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Trudaine ;  "  I  remember  to  have  heard  something 
of  this,  and  to  have  paid  no  great  attention  to  it  at  the  time,  having 
little  sympathy  with  such  aspirations  as  you  describe.  You  have 
lived  many  years  in  Danville's  service,  Monsieur  Lomaque;  have 


*Z6  AFTER   DAKK. 

you" — he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  continued,  looking  the  land- 
steward  full  in  the  face — "have  you  found  him  a  good  and  kind 
master?" 

Lomaque's  thin  lips  seemed  to  close  instinctively  at  the  question, 
as  if  he  were  never  going  to  speak  again.  He  bowed — Trudaine 
waited  —  he  only  bowed  again.  Trudaine  waited  a  third  time. 
Lomaque  looked  at  his  host  with  perfect  steadiness  for  an  instant, 
then  his  eyes  began  to  get  weak  again.  "  You  seem  to  have  some 
special  interest,"  he  quietly  remarked,  "  if  I  may  say  so  without  of- 
fense, in  asking  me  that  question." 

"  I  deal  frankly,  at  all  hazards,  with  every  one,"  returned  Tru- 
daine ;  "  and  stranger  as  you  are,  I  will  deal  frankly  with  you.  I 
acknowledge  that  I  have  an  interest  in  asking  that  question — the 
dearest,  the  tenderest  of  all  interests."  At  those  last  words,  his 
voice  trembled  for  a  moment,  but  he  went  on  firmly  ;  "  from  the  be- 
ginning of  my  sister's  engagement  with  Danville,  I  made  it  my  duty 
not  to  conceal  my  own  feelings ;  my  conscience  and  my  affection 
for  Rose  counseled  me  to  be  candid  to  the  last,  even  though  my  can- 
dor should  distress  or  offend  others.  When  we  first  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Madame  Danville,  and  when  I  first  discovered  that 
her  son's  attentions  to  Rose  were  not  unfavorably  received,  I  felt 
astonished,  and,  though  it  cost  me  a  hard  effort,  I  did  not  conceal 
that  astonishment  from  my  sister — 

Lomaque,  who  had  hitherto  been  all  attention,  started  here,  and 
threw  up  his  hands  in  amazement.  "Astonished,  did  I  hear  you 
say  ?  Astonished,  Monsieur  Trudaine,  that  the  attentions  of  a  young 
gentleman,  possessed  of  all  the  graces  and  accomplishments  of  a 
highly-bred  Frenchman,  should  be  favorably  received  by  a  young 
lady !  Astonished  that  such  a  dancer,  such  a  singer,  such  a  talker, 
such  a  notoriously  fascinating  ladies'  man  as  Monsieur  Danville, 
should,  by  dint  of  respectful  assiduity,  succeed  in  making  some  im- 
pression on  the  heart  of  Mademoiselle  Rose !  Oh,  Monsieur  Tru- 
daine, venerated  Monsieur  Trudaine,  this  is  almost  too  much  to 
credit !"  Lomaque's  eyes  grew  weaker  than  ever,  and  winked  in- 
cessantly, as  he  uttered  this  apostrophe.  At  the  end,  he  threw  up 
his  hands  again,  and  blinked  inquiringly  all  round  him,  in  mute  ap- 
peal to  universal  nature. 

"  When,  in  the  course  of  time,  matters  were  further  advanced," 
continued  Trudaine,  without  paying  any  attention  to  the  interrup- 
tion ;  "  when  the  offer  of  marriage  was  made,  and  when  I  knew  that 
Rose  had  in  her  own  heart  accepted  it,  I  objected,  and  I  did  not 
conceal  my  objections — " 

"  Heavens !"  interposed  Lomaque  again,  clasping  his  hands  this 
time  with  a  look  of  bewilderment ;  "  what  objections,  what  possible 
objections  to  a  man  young  and  well-bred,  with  an  immense  fortune 


SISTER   ROSE.  77 

and  an  uncompromised  character  ?  I  have  heard  of  these  objec- 
tions; I  know  they  have  made  bad  blood;  and  I  ask  myself  again 
and  again,  what  can  they  be  ?" 

"God  knows  I  have  often  tried  to  dismiss  them  from  my  mind 
as  fanciful  and  absurd,"  said  Trudaine,  "  and  I  have  always  failed. 
It  is  impossible,  in  your  presence,  that  I  can  describe  in  detail  what 
my  own  impressions  have  been,  from  the  first,  of  the  master  whom 
you  serve.  Let  it  be  enough  if  I  confide  to  you  that  I  can  not,  even 
now,  persuade  myself  of  the  sincerity  of  his  attachment  to  my  sis- 
ter, and  that  I  feel — in  spite  of  myself,  in  spite  of  my  earnest  desire 
to  put  the  most  implicit  confidence  in  Rose's  choice — a  distrust  of 
his  character  and  temper,  which  now,  on  the  eve  of  the  marriage, 
amounts  to  positive  terror.  Long  secret  suffering,  doubt,  and  sus- 
pense, wring  this  confession  from  me,  Monsieur  Lomaque,  almost  un- 
awares, in  defiance  of  caution,  in  defiance  of  all  the  conventionali- 
ties of  society.  You  have  lived  for  years  under  the  same  roof  with 
this  man ;  you  have  seen  him  in  his  most  unguarded  and  private 
moments.  I  tempt  you  to  betray  no  confidence — I  only  ask  you  if 
you  can  make  me  happy  by  telling  me  that  I  have  been  doing  your 
master  grievous  injustice  by  my  opinion  of  him  ?  I  ask  you  to 
take  my  hand,  and  tell  me  if  you  can,  in  all  honor,  that  my  sister  is 
not  risking  the  happiness  of  her  whole  life  by  giving  herself  in  mar- 
riage to  Danville  to-morrow !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  while  he  spoke.  By  some  strange  chance, 
Lomaque  happened  just  at  that  moment  to  be  looking  away  toward 
those  beauties  of  nature  which  he  admired  so  greatly.  "Really, 
Monsieur  Trudaine,  really  such  an  appeal  from  you,  at  such  a  time, 
amazes  me."  Having  got  so  far,  he  stopped  and  said  no  more. 

"  When  we  first  sat  down  together  here.  I  had  no  thought  of 
making  this  appeal,  no  idea  of  talking  to  you  as  I  have  talked," 
pursued  the  other.  "  My  words  have  escaped  me,  as  I  told  you,  al- 
most unawares;  you  must  make  allowances  for  them  and  for  me. 
I  can  not  expect  others,  Monsieur  Lomaque,  to  appreciate  and  un- 
derstand my  feelings  for  Rose.  We  two  have  lived  alone  in  the 
world  together;  father,  mother,  kindred,  they  all  died  years  since, 
and  left  us.  I  am  so  much  older  than  my  sister,  that  I  have  learned 
to  feel  toward  her  more  as  a  father  than  as  a  brother.  All  my  life, 
all  my  dearest  hopes,  all  my  highest  expectations,  have  centred  in 
her.  I  was  past  the  period  of  my  boyhood  when  my  mother  put  my 
little  child-sister's  hand  in  mine,  and  said  to  me  on  her  death-bed, 
'Louis,  be  all  to  her  that  I  have  been,  for  she  has  no  one  left  to  look 
to  but  you/  Since  then  the  loves  and  ambitions  of  other  men  have 
not  been  my  loves  or  my  ambitions.  Sister  Rose — as  we  all  used 
to  call  her  in  those  past  days,  as  I  love  to  call  her  still — Sister  Rose 
has  been  the  one  aim,  the  one  happiness,  the  one  precious  trust,  the 


78  AFTER   DARK. 

one  treasured  reward,  of  all  my  life.  I  have  lived  in  this  poor 
house,  in  this  dull  retirement,  as  in  a  paradise,  because  Sister  Rose 
— my  innocent,  happy,  bright-faced  Eve — has  lived  here  with  me. 
Even  if  the  husband  of  her  choice  had  been  the  husband  of  mine,  the 
necessity  of  parting  with  her  would  have  been  the  hardest,  the  bit- 
terest of  trials.  As  it  is,  thinking  what  I  think,  dreading  what  I 
dread,  judge  what  my  feelings  must  be  on  the  eve  of  her  marriage ; 
and  know  why,  and  with  what  object,  I  made  the  appeal  which  sur- 
prised you  a  moment  since,  but  which  can  not  surprise  you  now. 
Speak  if  you  will  —  I  can  say  no  more."  He  sighed  bitterly;  his 
head  dropped  on  his  breast,  and  the  hand  which  he  had  extended 
to  Lotnaque  trembled  as  he  withdrew  it  and  let  it  fall  at  his  side. 

The  land-steward  was  not  a  man  accustomed  to  hesitate,  but  he 
hesitated  now.  He  was  not  usually  at  a  loss  for  phrases  in  which 
to  express  himself,  but  he  stammered  at  the  very  outset  of  his  reply. 
"  Suppose  I  answered,1'  he  began,  slowly ;  "  suppose  I  told  you  that 
you  wronged  him,  would  my  testimony  really  be  strong  enough  to 
shake  opinions,  or  rather  presumptions,  which  have  been  taking 
firmer  and  firmer  hold  of -you  for  months  and  months  past  ?  Sup- 
pose, on  the  other  hand,  that  my  master  had  his  little  "  (Lomaque 
hesitated  before  he  pronounced  the  next  word) — "  his  little — infir- 
mities, let  me  say  ;  but  only  hypothetically,  mind  that — infirmities  ; 
and  suppose  I  had  observed  them,  and  was  willing  to  confide  them 
to  you,  what  purpose  would  such  a  confidence  answer  now,  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  with  Mademoiselle  Rose's  heart  engaged,  with  the 
marriage  fixed  for  to-morrow  ?  No  !  no !  trust  me — " 

Trudaine  looked  up  suddenly.  "  I  thank  you  for  reminding  me, 
Monsieur  Lomaque,  that  it  is  too  late  now  to  make  inquiries,  and  by 
consequence  too  late  also  to  trust  in  others.  My  sister  has  chosen ; 
and  on  the  subject  of  that  choice  my  lips  shall  be  henceforth  sealed. 
The  events  of  the  future  are  with  God ;  whatever  they  may  be,  I 
hope  I  am  strong  enough  to  bear  my  part  in  them  with  the  patience 
and  the  courage  of  a  man !  I  apologize,  Monsieur  Lomaque,  for 
having  thoughtlessly  embarrassed  you  by  questions  which  I  had  no 
right  to  ask.  Let  us  return  to  the  house  —  I  will  show  you  the 
way." 

Lomaque's  lips  opened,  then  closed  again ;  he  bowed  uneasily,  and 
his  sallow  complexion  whitened  for  a  moment. 

Trudaine  led  the  way  in  silence  back  to  the  house ;  the  land- 
steward  following  slowly  at  a  distance  of  several  paces,  and  talking 
in  whispers  to  himself.  "  His  father  was  the  saving  of  me,"  mut- 
tered Lomaque ;  "  that  is  truth,  and  there  is  no  getting  over  it ;  his 
father  was  the  saving  of  me ;  and  yet  here  am  I — no  !  it's  too  late  ! 
—too  late  to  speak — too  late  to  act — too  late  to  do  any  thing !" 

Close  to  the  house  they  were  met  by  the  old  servant. 


SISTER    ROSE.  79 

"  My  young  lady  has  just  sent  me  to  call  you  in  to  coffee,  mon- 
sieur," said  Guillaume.  ••  She  has  kept  a  cup  hot  for  you,  and  an- 
other c-iip  for  Monsieur  Lomaque." 

The  land-steward  started — this  time  with  genuine  astonishment. 
"  For  me !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Mademoiselle  Rose  has  troubled  her- 
self to  keep  a  cup  of  coffee  hot  for  me  ?"  The  old  servant  stared ; 
Trudaine  stopped  and  looked  back. 

"  What  is  there  so  very  surprising,"  he  asked,  "  in  such  an  ordi- 
nary act  of  politeness  on  my  sister's  part  ?" 

"  Excuse  me,  Monsieur  Trudaine,"  answered  Lomaque ;  "  you  have 
not  passed  such  an  existence  as  mine — you  are  not  a  friendless  old 
man — you  have  a  settled  position  in  the  world,  and  are  used  to  be 
treated  with  consideration.  I  am  not.  This  is  the  first  occasion  in 
my  life  on  which  I  find  myself  an  object  for  the  attention  of  a  young 
lady,  and  it  takes  me  by  surprise.  I  repeat  iny  excuses ;  pray  let  us 
go  in." 

Trudaine  made  no  reply  to  this  curious  explanation.  He  won- 
dered at  it  a  little,  however,  and  he  wondered  still  more  when,  on 
entering  tin-  drawing-room,  he  saw  Lomaque  walk  straight  up  to 
his  sister,  and — apparently  not  noticing  that  Danville  was  sitting  at 
the  harpsichord  and  singing  at  the  time  —  address  her  confusedly 
and  earnestly  with  a  set  speech  of  thanks  for  his  hot  cup  of  coffee. 
Rose  looked  perplexed,  and  half  inclined  to  laugh,  as  she  listened  to 
him.  Madame  Danville,  who  sat  by  her  side,  frowned,  and  tapped 
the  land-steward  contemptuously  on  the  arm  with  her  fan. 

'•  Be  so  good  as  to  keep  silent  until  my  sou  has  done  singing," 
she  said.  Lomaque  made  a  low  bow,  and  retiring  to  a  table  in  a 
corner,  took  up  a  newspaper  lying  on  it.  If  Madame  Danville  had 
seen  the  expression  that  came  over  his  face  when  he  turned  away 
from  her,  proud  as  she  was,  her  aristocratic  composure  might  possi- 
bly have  been  a  little  ruffled. 

Danville  had  finished  his  song,  had  quitted  the  harpsichord,  and 
was  talking  in  whispers  to  his  bride ;  Madame  Danville  was  adding 
a  word  to  the  conversation  every  now  and  then ;  Trudaine  was  seat- 
ed apart  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  thoughtfully  reading  a  letter 
which  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket,  when  an  exclamation  from 
Lomaque,  who  was  still  engaged  with  the  newspaper,  caused  all  the 
other  occupants  of  the  apartment  to  suspend  their  employments 
and  look  up. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Danville,  impatiently. 

"  Shall  I  be  interrupting,  if  I  explain  ?"  inquired  Lomaque,  getting 
very  weak  in  the  eyes  again,  as  he  deferentially  addressed  himself  to 
Madame  Danville. 

"  You  have  already  interrupted  us,"  said  the  old  lady,  sharply ;  "  so 
you  may  now  just  as  well  explain." 


80  AFTER   DARK. 

"  It  is  a  passage  from  the  Scientific  Intelligence,  which  has  given 
me  great  delight,  and  which  will  be  joyful  news  for  every  one  here." 
Saying  this,  Lomaque  looked  significantly  at  Trudaine,  and  then  read 
from  the  newspaper  these  lines : 

"  ACADEMY  OF  SCIENCES,  PARIS. — The  vacant  sub-professorship  of 
chemistry  has  been  offered,  we  are  rejoiced  to  hear,  to  a  gentleman 
whose  modesty  has  hitherto  prevented  his  scientific  merits  from  be- 
coming sufficiently  prominent  in  the  world.  To  the  members  of  the 
academy  he  has  been  long  since  known  as  the  originator  of  some  of 
the  most  remarkable  improvements  in  chemistry  which  have  been 
made  of  late  years — improvements,  the  credit  of  which  he  has,  with 
rare,  and  we  were  almost  about  to  add,  culpable  moderation,  allowed 
others  to  profit  by  with  impunity.  No  man  in  any  profession  is  more 
thoroughly  entitled  to  have  a  position  of  trust  and  distinction  con- 
ferred on  him  by  the  State  than  the  gentleman  to  whom  we  refer — 
M.  Louis  Trudaine." 

Before  Lomaque  could  look  up  from  the  paper  to  observe  the  im- 
pression which  his  news  produced,  Rose  had  gained  her  brother's 
side,  and  was  kissing  him  in  a  flutter  of  delight. 

"  Dear  Louis,"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands,  "  let  me  be  the  first 
to  congratulate  you  !  How  proud  and  glad  I  am  !  You  accept  the 
professorship,  of  course  ?" 

Trudaine,  who  had  hastily  and  confusedly  put  his  letter  back  in 
his  pocket  the  moment  Lomaque  began  to  read,  seemed  at  a  loss 
for  an  answer.  He  patted  his  sister's  hand  rather  absently,  and 
said, 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind ;  don't  ask  me  why,  Rose — at  least 
not  now,  not  just  now."  An  expression  of  perplexity  and  distress 
came  over  his  face,  as  he  gently  motioned  her  to  resume  her  chair. 

"  Pray,  is  a  sub-professor  of  chemistry  supposed  to  hold  the  rank 
of  a  gentleman  ?"  asked  Madame  Danville,  without  the  slightest  ap- 
pearance of  any  special  interest  in  Lornaque's  news. 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  her  son,  with  a  sarcastic  laugh ;  "  he  is 
expected  to  work  and  make  himself  useful.  What  gentleman  does 
that?" 

"  Charles !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  reddening  with  anger. 

"  Bah !"  cried  Danville,  turning  his  back  on  her,  "  enough  of  chem- 
istry. Lomaque,  now  you  have  begun  reading  the  newspaper,  try 
if  you  can't  find  something  interesting  to  read  about.  What  are 
the  last  accounts  from  Paris  ?  Any  more  symptoms  of  a  general 
revolt  ?" 

Lomaque  turned  to  another  part  of  the  paper.  "  Bad,  very  bad 
prospects  for  the  restoration  of  tranquillity,"  he  said.  "  Necker,  the 
people's  minister,  is  dismissed.  Placards  against  popular  gatherings 
are  posted  all  over  Paris.  The  Swiss  Guards  have  been  ordered  10 


SISTER  EOSB.  81 

the  Champs  Elyse"es,  with  four  pieces  of  artillery.  No  more  is  yet 
known,  but  the  worst  is  dreaded.  The  breach  between  the  aris- 
tocracy and  the  people  is  widening  fatally  almost  hour  by  hour." 

Mere  he  stopped  and  laid  down  the  newspaper.  Trudaine  took  it 
from  him,  and  shook  his  head  forebodingly  as  he  looked  over  the 
paragraph  which  had  just  been  read. 

"  Bah  !"  cried  Madame  Danville.  "  The  People,  indeed !  Let  those 
four  pieces  of  artillery  be  properly  loaded,  let  the  Swiss  Guards  do 
their  duty,  and  we  shall  hear  no  more  of  the  People  !" 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  be  sure  of  that,"  said  her  son,  carelessly ; 
"  there  are  rather  too  many  people  in  Paris  for  the  Swiss  Guards  to 
shoot  conveniently.  Don't  hold  your  head  too  aristocratically  high, 
mother,  till  we  are  quite  certain  which  way  the  wind  really  does 
blow.  Who  knows  if  I  may  not  have  to  bow  just  as  low  one  of 
these  days  to  King  Mob  as  ever  you  courtesied  in  your  youth  to 
King  Louis  the  Fifteenth  ?" 

He  laughed  complacently  as  he  ended,  and  opened  his  snuff- 
box. His  mother  rose  from  her  chair,  her  face  crimson  with  indig- 
nation. 

"I  won't  hear  you  talk  so  —  it  shocks,  it  horrifies  me!"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  vehement  gesticulation.  "  No,  no !  I  decline  to  hear 
another  word.  I  decline  to  sit  by  patiently  while  my  son,  whom  I 
love,  jests  at  the  most  sacred  principles,  and  sneers  at  the  memory 
of  an  anointed  king.  This  is  my  reward,  is  it,  for  having  yielded 
and  having  come  here,  against  all  the  laws  of  etiquette,  the  night 
before  the  marriage  ?  I  comply  no  longer ;  I  resume  my  own  will 
and  my  own  way.  I  order  you,  my  son,  to  accompany  me  back  to 
Rouen.  We  are  the  bridegroom's  party,  and  we  have  no  business 
overnight  at  the  house  of  the  bride.  You  meet  no  more  till  you 
meet  at  the  church.  Justin,  my  coach  !  Lomaque,  pick  up  my 
hood.  Monsieur  Trudaine,  thanks  for  your  hospitality ;  I  shall  hope 
to  return  it  with  interest  the  first  time  you  are  in  our  neighborhood. 
Mademoiselle,  put  on  your  best  looks  to-morrow,  along  with  your 
wedding  finery;  remember  that  my  son's  bride  must  do  honor  to 
my  son's  taste.  Justin !  my  coach — drone,  vagabond,  idiot,  where 
is  my  coach  ?" 

"My  mother  looks  handsome  when  she  is  in  a  passion,  does  she 
not,  Rose  ?"  said  Danville,  quietly  putting  up  his  snuff-box  as  the 
old  lady  sailed  out  of  the  room.  "  Why,  you  seem  quite  frightened, 
love,"  he  added,  taking  her  hand  with  his  easy,  graceful  air; 
44  frightened,  let  me  assure  you,  without  the  least  cause.  My  mother 
has  but  that  one  prejudice,  and  that  one  weak  point,  Rose.  You 
will  find  her  a  very  dove  for  gentleness,  as  long  as  you  do  not 
wound  her  pride  of  caste.  Come,  come,  on  this  night,  of  all  others, 
you  must  not  send  me  away  with  such  a  face  as  that." 


82  AFTER   DARK. 

He  bent  down  and  whispered  to  her  a  bridegroom's  compliment, 
which  brought  the  blood  back  to  her  cheek  in  an  instant. 

"Ah,  how  she  loves  him  —  how  dearly  she  loves  him!"  thought 
her  brother,  watching  her  from  his  solitary  corner  of  the  room,  and 
seeing  the  smile  that  brightened  her  blushing  face  when  Danville 
kissed  her  hand  at  parting. 

Lomaque,  who  had  remained  imperturbably  cool  during  the  out- 
break of  the  old  lady's  anger — Lomaque,  whose  observant  eyes  had 
watched  sarcastically  the  effect  of  the  scene  between  mother  and  son 
on  Trudaine  and  his  sister,  was  the  last  to  take  leave.  After  he  had 
bowed  to  Rose  with  a  certain  gentleness  in  his  manner,  which  con- 
trasted strangely  with  his  wrinkled,  haggard  face,  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  her  brother.  "  I  did  not  take  your  hand  when  we  sat  to- 
gether on  the  bench,"  he  said ;  "  may  I  take  it  now  ?" 

Trudaine  met  his  advance  courteously,  but  in  silence.  "  You  may 
alter  your  opinion  of  me  one  of  these  days."  Adding  those  words 
in  a  whisper,  Monsieur  Lomaque  bowed  once  more  to  the  bride  and 
went  out. 

For  a  few  minutes  after  the  door  had  closed,  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter kept  silence.  "  Our  last  night  together  at  home !"  That  was  the 
thought  which  now  filled  the  heart  of  each.  Rose  was  the  first  to 
speak.  Hesitating  a  little  as  she  approached  her  brother,  she  said 
to  him,  anxiously, 

"  I  am  sorry  for  what  happened  with  Madame  Danville,  Louis. 
Does  it  make  you  think  the  worse  of  Charles  ?" 

"I  can  make  allowance  for  Madame  Danville's  anger,"  returned 
Trudaine,  evasively,  "  because  she  spoke  from  honest  conviction." 

"  Honest  ?"  echoed  Rose,  sadly,  "  honest  ? — ah,  Louis !  I  know  you 
are  thinking  disparagingly  of  Charles's  convictions,  when  you  speak 
so  of  his  mother's." 

Trudaine  smiled  and  shook  his  head ;  but  she  took  no  notice  of 
the  gesture  of  denial  —  only  stood  looking  earnestly  and  wistfully 
into  his  face.  Her  eyes  began  to  fill ;  she  suddenly  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  whispered  to  him,  "  Oh,  Louis,  Louis !  how  I 
wish  I  could  teach  you  to  see  Charles  with  my  eyes !" 

He  felt  her  tears  on  his  cheek  as  she  spoke,  and  tried  to  re- 
assure her. 

"  You  shall  teach  me,  Rose — you  shall,  indeed.  Come,  come,  we 
must  keep  up  our  spirits,  or  how  are  you  to  look  your  best  to- 
morrow ?" 

He  unclasped  her  arms,  and  led  her  gently  to  a  chair.  At  the 
same  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Rose's  maid  ap- 
peared, anxious  to  consult  her  mistress  on  some  of  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  wedding  ceremony.  No  interruption  could  have  been 
more  welcome  just  at  that  time.  It  obliged  Rose  to  think  of  pres- 


SISTER   ROSE.  83 

ent  trifles,  and  it  gave  her  brother  an  excuse  for  retiring  to  his 
study. 

He  sat  down  by  his  desk,  doubting  and  heavy-hearted,  and 
placed  the  letter  from  the  Academy  of  Sciences  open  before  him. 

Passing  over  all  the  complimentary  expressions  which  it  contain- 
ed, his  eye  rested  only  on  these  lines  at  the  end :  "  During  the  first 
three  years  of  your  professorship,  you  will  be  required  to  reside  in 
or  near  Paris  nine  months  out  of  the  year,  for  the  purpose  of  de- 
livering lectures  and  superintending  experiments  from  time  to  time 
in  the  laboratories."  The  letter  in  which  these  lines  occurred  offer- 
ed him  such  a  position  as  in  his  modest  self-distrust  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  before ;  the  lines  themselves  contained  the  promise  of 
such  vast  facilities  for  carrying  on  his  favorite  experiments  as  he 
could  never  hope  to  command  in  his  own  little  study,  with  his  own 
limited  means;  and  yet,  there  he  now  sat  doubting  whether  he 
should  accept  or  reject  the  tempting  honors  and  advantages  that 
were  offered  to  him — doubting  for  his  sister's  sake  ! 

"  Nine  months  of  the  year  in  Paris,"  he  said  to  himself,  sadly ; 
•'and  Rose  is  to  pass  her  married  life  at  Lyons.  Oh,  if  I  could  clear 
my  heart  of  its  dread  on  her  account  —  if  I  could  free  my  mind  of 
its  forebodings  for  her  future — how  gladly  I  would  answer  this  let- 
ter by  accepting  the  trust  it  offers  me  !" 

He  paused  for  a  few  minutes,  and  reflected.  The  thoughts  that 
were  in  him  marked  their  ominous  course  in  the  growing  paleness 
of  his  cheek,  in  the  dimness  that  stole  over  his  eyes.  "  If  this  cleav- 
ing distrust  from  which  I  can  not  free  myself  should  be  in  very 
truth  the  mute  prophecy  of  evil  to  come — to  come,  I  know  not  when 
— if  it  be  so  (which  God  forbid),  how  soon  she  may  want  a  friend,  a 
protector  near  at  hand,  a  ready  refuge  in  the  time  of  her  trouble ! 
Where  shall  she  then  find  protection  or  refuge  ?  With  that  passion- 
ate woman  ?  With  her  husband's  kindred  and  friends?" 

He  shuddered  as  the  thought  crossed  his  mind,  and,  opening  a 
blank  sheet  of  paper,  dipped  his  pen  in  the  iuk.  ''Be  all  to  her, 
Louis,  that  I  have  been,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  repeating  his 
mother's  last  words,  and  beginning  the  letter  while  he  uttered  them. 
It  was  soon  completed.  It  expressed  in  the  most  respectful  terms 
his  gratitude  for  the  offer  made  to  him,  and  his  inability  to  accept 
it,  in  consequence  of  domestic  circumstances  which  it  was  needless 
to  explain.  The  letter  was  directed,  sealed;  it  only  remained  for 
him  to  place  it  in  the  post-bag,  lying  near  at  hand.  At  this  last  de- 
cisive act  he  hesitated.  He  had  told  Lomaque,  and  he  had  firmly 
believed  himself,  that  he  had  conquered  all  ambitions  for  his  sister's 
sake.  He  knew  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  had  only  lulled  them 
to  rest — he  knew  that  the  letter  from  Paris  had  aroused  them.  His 
answer  was  written,  his  hand  was  on  the  post-bag,  and  at  that  mo- 


84  AFTER  DAKK. 

ment  the  whole  struggle  had  to  be  risked  over  again — risked  when 
he  was  most  unfit  for  it!  He  was  not  a  man  under  any  ordinary 
circumstances  to  procrastinate,  but  he  procrastinated  now. 

"Night  brings  counsel;  I  will  wait  till  to-morrow,"  he  said  to 
himself,  and  put  the  letter  of  refusal  in  his  pocket,  and  hastily  quit- 
ted the  laboratory. 


CHAPTER  II. 

INEXORABLY  the  important  morrow  came :  irretrievably,  for  good 
or  for  evil,  the  momentous  marriage-vow  was  pronounced.  Charles 
Danville  and  Rose  Trudaine  were  now  man  and  wife.  The  prophecy 
of  the  magnificent  sunset  overnight  had  not  proved  false.  "  It  was 
a  cloudless  day  on  the  marriage  morning.  The  nuptial  ceremonies 
had  proceeded  smoothly  throughout,  and  had  even  satisfied  Madame 
Danville.  She  returned  with  the  wedding  -  party  to  Trudaine's 
house,  all  smiles  and  serenity.  To  the  bride  she  was  graciousness 
itself.  "  Good  girl,"  said  the  old  lady,  following  Rose  into  a  corner, 
and  patting  her  approvingly  on  the  cheek  with  her  fan;  "good 
girl,  you  have  looked  well  this  morning  —  you  have  done  credit  to 
my  son's  taste.  Indeed,  you  have  pleased  me,  child !  Now  go  up 
stairs,  and  get  on  your  traveling -dress,  and  count  on  my  maternal 
affection  as  long  as  you  make  Charles  happy." 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  bride  and  bridegroom  should  pass 
their  honey-moon  in  Brittany,  and  then  return  to  Danville's  estate 
near  Lyons.  The  parting  was  hurried  over,  as  all  such  partings 
should  be.  The  carriage  had  driven  off;  Trudaine,  after  lingering 
long  to  look  after  it,  had  returned  hastily  to  the  house ;  the  very  dust 
of  the  whirling  wheels  had  all  dispersed ;  there  was  absolutely  noth- 
ing to  see ;  and  yet  there  stood  Monsieur  Lomaque  at  the  outer  gate ; 
idly,  as  if  he  was  an  independent  man  —  calmly,  as  if  no  such  re- 
sponsibilities as  the  calling  of  Madame  Danville's  coach,  and  the 
escorting  of  Madame  Danville  back  to  Lyons,  could  possibly  rest  on 
his  shoulders.  • 

Idly  and  calmly,  slowly  rubbing  his  hands  one  over  the  other, 
slowly  nodding  his  head  in  the  direction  by  which  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  had  departed,  stood  the  eccentric  land-steward  at  the 
outer  gate.  On  a  sudden  the  sound  of  footsteps  approaching  from 
the  house  seemed  to  arouse  him.  Once  more  he  looked  out  into  the 
road,  as  if  he  expected  still  to  see  the  carriage  of  the  newly-married 
couple.  "Poor  girl !  ah,  poor  girl !"  said  Monsieur  Lomaque  softly 
to  himself,  turning  round  to  ascertain  who  was  coming  from  the 
house. 


SISTER   ROSE.  85 


It  was  only  the  postman  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  the 
bag  crumpled  up  under  his  arm. 

••  Any  fresh  news  from  Paris,  friend  ?"  asked  Lomaque. 

••Very  bad,  monsieur,"  answered  the  postman.  "Camille  Des- 
moulins  has  appealed  to  the  people  in  the  Palais  Royal  ;  there  are 
fears  of  a  riot." 

"  Only  a  riot  !"  repeated  Lomaque,  sarcastically.  "  Oh,  what  a 
brave  Government  not  to  be  afraid  of  any  thing  worse  !  Any  let- 
ters?" he  added,  hastily  dropping  the  subject. 

"  None  to  the  house,"  said  the  postman,  "  only  one  from  it,  given 
me  by  Monsieur  Trudaine.  Hardly  worth  while,"  he  added,  twirl- 
ing the  letter  in  his  hand,  "  to  put  it  into  the  bag,  is  it?" 

Lomaque  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  he  spoke,  and  saw  that  the 
letter  was  directed  to  the  President  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences, 
Paris. 

"  I  wonder  whether  he  accepts  the  place  or  refuses  it  ?"  thought 
the  land-steward,  nodding  to  the  postman,  and  continuing  on  his 
way  back  to  the  house. 

At  the  door  he  met  Trudaine,  who  said  to  him,  rather  hastily, 
"  You  are  going  back  to  Lyons  with  Madame  Danville,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  This  very  day,"  answered  Lomaque. 

"  If  you  should  hear  of  a  convenient  bachelor  lodging  at  Lyons, 
or  near  it,"  continued  the  other,  dropping  his  voice  and  speaking 
more  rapidly  than  before,  "  you  would  be  doing  me  a  favor  if  you 
would  let  me  know  about  it." 

Lomaque  assented  ;  but  before  he  could  add  a  question  which  was 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  Trudaine  had  vanished  in  the  interior  of 
the  house. 

"  A  bachelor  lodging  !"  repeated  the  land-steward,  standing  alone 
on  the  door-step.  "  At  or  near  Lyons  !  Aha  !  Monsieur  Trudaine, 
I  put  your  bachelor  lodging  and  your  talk  to  me  last  night  together, 
and  I  make  out  a  sum  total  which  is,  I  think,  pretty  near  the  mark. 
You  have  refused  that  Paris  appointment,  my  friend  ;  and  I  fancy  I 
can  guess  why." 

He  paused  thoughtfully,  and  shook  his  head  with  ominous  frowns 
and  bitings  of  his  lips. 

"All  clear  enough  in  that  sky,"  he  continued,  after  a  while,  look- 
ing up  at  the  lustrous  midday  heaven.  "All  clear  enough  there; 
but  I  think  I  see  a  little  cloud  rising  in  a  certain  household  firma- 
ment already  —  a  little  cloud  which  hides  much,  and  which  I  for  one 
suall  watch  carefully." 


86  AFTER   DARK. 


PART  SECOND.— CHAPTER  I. 

FIVE  years  have  elapsed  since  Monsieur  Lomaque  stood  thought- 
fully at  the  gate  of  Trudaine's  house,  looking  after  the  carriage  of 
the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  seriously  reflecting  on  the  events  of 
the  future.  Great  changes  have  passed  over  that  domestic  firma- 
ment in  which  he  prophetically  discerned  the  little  warning  cloud. 
Greater  changes  have  passed  over  the  firmament  of  France. 

What  was  revolt  five  years  ago  is  Revolution  now  —  revolution 
which  has  ingulfed  thrones,  and  principalities,  and  powers;  which 
has  set  up  crownless,  inhereditary  kings  and  counselors  of  its  own, 
and  has  bloodily  torn  them  down  again  by  dozens ;  which  has  raged 
and  raged  on  unrestrainedly  in  fierce  earnest,  until  but  one  king  can 
still  govern  and  control  it  for  a  little  while.  That  king  is  named 
Terror,  and  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety-four  is  the  year  of  his 
reign. 

Monsieur  Lomaque,  land  -  steward  no  longer,  sits  alone  in  an  of- 
ficial-looking room  in  one  of  the  official  buildings  of  Paris.  It  is 
another  July  evening,  as  fine  as  that  evening  when  he  and  Trudaine 
sat  talking  together  on  the  bench  .overlooking  the  Seine.  The  win- 
dow of  the  room  is  wide  open,  and  a  faint,  pleasant  breeze  is  begin- 
ning to  flow  through  it.  But  Lomaque  breathes  uneasily,  as  if  still 
oppressed  by  the  sultry  midday  heat ;  and  there  are  signs  of  per- 
plexity and  trouble  in  his  face  as  he  looks  down  absently  now  and 
then  into  the  street. 

The  times  he  lives  in  are  enough  of  themselves  to  sadden  any 
man's  face.  In  the  Reign  of  Terror  no  living  being  in  all  the  city 
of  Paris  can  rise  in  the  morning  and  be  certain  of  escaping  the  spy, 
the  denunciation,  the  arrest,  or  the  guillotine,  before  night.  Such 
times  are  trying  enough  to  oppress  any  man's  spirits ;  but  Lomaque 
is  not  thinking  of  them  or  caring  for  them  now.  Out  of  a  mass  of 
papers  which  lie  before  him  on  his  old  writing  -  table,  he  has  just 
taken  up  and  read  one,  which  has  carried  his  thoughts  back  to  the 
past,  and  to  the  changes  which  have  taken  place  since  he  stood 
alone  on  the  door -step  of  Trudaine's  house,  pondering  on  what 
might  happen. 

More  rapidly  even  than  he  had  foreboded  those  changes  had  oc- 
curred. In  less  time  even  than  he  had  anticipated,  the  sad  emergen- 
cy for  which  Rose's  brother  had  prepared,  as  for  a  barely  possible 
calamity,  overtook  Trudaine,  and  called  for  all  the  patience,  the 
courage,  the  self-sacrifice  which  he  had  to  give  for  his  sister's  sake. 


SISTER  ROSE.  87 

By  slow  gradations  downward,  from  bad  to  worse,  her  husband's 
character  manifested  itself  less  and  less  disguisedly  almost  day  by 
day.  Occasional  slights,  ending  in  habitual  neglect;  careless  es- 
trangement, turning  to  cool  enmity ;  small  insults,  which  ripened 
evilly  to  great  injuries — these  were  the  pitiless  signs  which  showed 
her  that  she  had  risked  all  and  lost  all  while  still  a  young  woman — 
t  IK-SI-  were  the  unmerited  afflictions  which  found  her  helpless,  and 
would  have  left  her  helpless,  but  for  the  ever-present  comfort  and 
support  of  her  brother's  self-denying  love.  From  the  first,  Trudaine 
had  devoted  himself  to  meet  such  trials  as  now  assailed  him ;  and 
like  a  man  he  met  them,  in  defiance  alike  of  persecution  from  the 
mother  and  of  insult  from  the  son. 

The  hard  task  was  only  lightened  when,  as  time  advanced,  public 
trouble  began  to  mingle  itself  with  private  grief.  Then  absorbing 
political  necessities  came  as  a  relief  to  domestic  misery.  Then  it 
grew  to  be  the  one  purpose  and  pursuit  of  Danville's  life  cunningly 
to  shape  his  course  so  that  he  might  move  safely  onward  with  the 
advancing  revolutionary  tide — he  cared  not  whither,  as  long  as  he 
kept  his  possessions  safe  and  his  life  out  of  danger.  His  mother, 
inflexibly  true  to  her  Old-World  convictions  through  all  peril,  might 
entreat  and  upbraid,  might  talk  of  honor,  and  courage,  and  sincerity 
— he  heeded  her  not,  or  heeded  only  to  laugh.  As  he  had  taken 
the  false  way  with  his  wife,  so  he  was  now  bent  on  taking  it  with 
the  world. 

The  years  passed  on ;  destroying  changes  swept  hurricane  -  like 
over  the  old  governing  system  of  France ;  and  still  Danville  shifted 
successfully  with  the  shifting  times.  The  first  days  of  the  Terror 
approached  ;  in  public  and  in  private — in  high  places  and  in  low — 
each  man  now  suspected  his  brother.  Crafty  as  Danville  was,  even 
he  fell  under  suspicion  at  last,  at  head-quarters  in  Paris,  principally 
on  his  mother's  account.  This  was  his  first  political  failure ;  and, 
in  a  moment  of  thoughtless  rage  and  disappointment,  he  wreaked 
the  irritation  caused  by  it  on  Lomaque.  Suspected  himself,  he  in 
turn  suspected  the  land-steward.  His  mother  fomented  the  suspi- 
cion— Lomaque  was  dismissed. 

In  the  old  times  the  victim  would  have  been  ruined,  in  the  new 
times  he  was  simply  rendered  eligible  for  a  political  vocation  in  life. 
Lomaque  was  poor,  quick-witted,  secret,  not  scrupulous.  He  was  a 
good  patriot ;  he  had  good  patriot  friends,  plenty  of  ambition,  a  sub- 
tle, cat-like  courage,  nothing  to  dread — and  he  went  to  Paris.  There 
were  plenty  of  small  chances  there  for  men  of  his  calibre.  He  wait- 
ed for  one  of  them.  It  came ;  he  made  the  most  of  it ;  attracted  fa- 
vorably the  notice  of  the  terrible  Fouquier-Tinville ;  and  won  his 
way  to  a  place  in  the  office  of  the  Secret  Police. 

Meanwhile,  Danville's  anger  cooled  down ;  he  recovered  the  use 


88  AFTER   DARK. 

of  that  cunning  sense  which  had  hitherto  served  him  well,  and  sent 
to  recall  the  discarded  servant.  It  was  too  late.  Lomaque  was  al- 
ready in  a  position  to  set  him  at  defiance — nay,  to  put  his  neck,  per- 
haps, under  the  blade  of  the  guillotine.  Worse  than  this,  anony- 
mous letters  reached  him,  warning  him  to  lose  no  time  in  proving 
his  patriotism  by  some  indisputable  sacrifice,  and  in  silencing  his 
mother,  whose  imprudent  sincerity  was  likely  ere  long  to  cost  her 
her  life.  Danville  knew  her  well  enough  to  know  that  there  was 
but  one  way  of  saving  her,  and  thereby  saving  himself.  She  had 
always  refused  to  emigrate;  but  he  now  insisted  that  she  should 
seize  the  first  opportunity  he  could  procure  for  her  of  quitting 
France  until  calmer  times  arrived. 

Probably  she  would  have  risked  her  own  life  ten  times  over  rath- 
er than  have  obeyed  him ;  but  she  had  not  the  courage  to  risk  her 
son's  too;  and  she  yielded  for  his  sake.  Partly  by  secret  influ- 
ence, partly  by  unblushing  fraud,  Danville  procured  for  her  such 
papers  and  permits  as  would  enable  her  to  leave  France  by  way  of 
Marseilles.  Even  then  she  refused  to  depart,  until  she  knew  what 
her  son's  plans  were  for  the  future.  He  showed  her  a  letter  which 
he  was  about  to  dispatch  to  Robespierre  himself,  vindicating  his 
suspected  patriotism,  and  indignantly  demanding  to  be  allowed  to 
prove  it  by  filling  some  office,  no  matter  how  small,  under  the  re- 
doubtable triumvirate  which  then  governed^  or  more  properly  terri- 
fied, France.  The  sight  of  this  document  re-assured  Madame  Dan- 
ville. She  bade  her  son  farewell,  and  departed  at  last,  with  one 
trusty  servant,  for  Marseilles. 

Danville's  intention,  in  sending  his  letter  to  Paris,  had  been  sim- 
ply to  save  himself  by  patriotic  bluster.  He  was  thunderstruck  at 
receiving  a  reply,  taking  him  at  his  word,  and  summoning  him  to 
the  capital  to  accept  employment  there  under  the  then  existing 
Government.  There  was  no  choice  but  to  obey.  So  to  Paris  he 
journeyed ;  taking  his  wife  with  him  into  the  very  jaws  of  danger. 
He  was  then  at  open  enmity  with  Trudaine ;  and  the  more  anxious 
and  alarmed  he  could  make  the  brother  feel  on  the  sister's  account, 
the  better  he  was  pleased.  True  to  his  trust  and  his  love,  through 
all  dangers  as  through  all  persecutions,  Trudaine  followed  them; 
and  the  street  of  their  sojourn  at  Paris,  in  the  perilous  days  of  the 
Terror,  was  the  street  of  his  sojourn  too. 

Danville  had  been  astonished  at  the  acceptance  of  his  proffered 
services ;  he  was  still  more  amazed  when  he  found  that  the  post  se- 
lected for  him  was  one  of  the  superintendent's  places  in  that  very 
office  of  Secret  Police  in  which  Lomaque  was  employed  as  agent. 
Robespierre  and  his  colleagues  had  taken  the  measure  of  their  man 
— he  had  money  enough,  and  local  importance  enough  to  be  worth 
studying.  They  knew  where  he  was  to  be  distrusted,  and  how  he 


SISTER  ROSS.  89 

miirht  be  made  useful.  The  affairs  of  the  Secret  Police  were  the 
sort  of  affairs  which  an  unscrupulously  cunning  man  was  fitted  to 
help  on;  and  the  faithful  exercise  of  that  cunning  in  the  service  of 
the  State  was  insured  by  the  presence  of  Lomaque  in  the  office. 
The  discarded  servant  was  just  the  right  sort  of  spy  to  watch  the 
suspected  master.  Thus  it  happened  that,  in  the  office  of  the  Se- 
en t  Police  at  Paris,  and  under  the  Reign  of  Terror,  Lomaque's  old 
master  was,  nominally,  his  master  still — the  superintendent  to  whom 
he  was  ceremonially  accountable,  in  public  —  the  suspected  man, 
whose  slightest  words  and  deeds  he  was  officially  set  to  watch,  in 
private. 

Ever  sadder  and  darker  grew  the  face  of  Lomaque  as  he  now 
pondered  alone  over  the  changes  and  misfortunes  of  the  past  five 
years.  A  neighboring  church -clock  striking  the  hour  of  seven 
aroused  him  from  his  meditations.  He  arranged  the  confused  mass 
of  papers  before  him — looked  toward  the  door,  as  if  expecting  some 
one  to  enter — then,  finding  himself  still  alone,  recurred  to  the  one 
special  paper  which  had  first  suggested  his  long  train  of  gloomy 
thoughts.  The  few  lines  it  contained  were  signed  in  cipher,  and 
ran  thus: 

"  You  are  aware  that  your  superintendent,  Danville,  obtained  leave 
of  absence  last  week  to  attend  to  some  affairs  of  his  at  Lyons,  and 
that  he  is  not  expected  back  just  yet  for  a  day  or  two.  While  he 
is  away,  push  on  the  affair  of  Trudaine.  Collect  all  the  evidence, 
and  hold  yourself  in  readiness  to  act  on  it  at  a  moment's  notice. 
Don't  leave  the  office  till  you  have  heard  from  me  again.  If  you 
have  a  copy  of  the  Private  Instructions  respecting  Danville,  which 
you  wrote  for  me,  send  it  to  my  house.  I  wish  to  refresh  my  mem- 
ory. Your  original  letter  is  burned." 

Here  the  note  abruptly  terminated.  As  he  folded  it  up  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket,  Lomaque  sighed.  This  was  a  very  rare  expression 
of  feeling  with  him.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  beat  his  nails 
impatiently  on  the  table.  Suddenly  there  was  a  faint  little  tap  at 
the  room  door,  and  eight  or  ten  men — evidently  familiars  of  the  new 
French  Inquisition — quietly  entered,  and  ranged  themselves  against 
the  wall. 

Lomaque  nodded  to  two  of  them.  "  Picard  and  Magloire,  go  and 
sit  down  at  that  desk.  I  shall  want  you  after  the  rest  are  gone." 
Saying  this,  Lomaque  handed  certain  sealed  and  docketed  papers 
to  the  other  men  waiting  in  the  room,  who  received  them  in  silence, 
bowed,  and  went  out.  Innocent  spectators  might  have  thought 
them  clerks  taking  bills  of  lading  from  a  merchant.  Who  could 
have  imagined  that  the  giving  and  receiving  of  Denunciation^  Ar- 

4 


90  AFTER 

rest-orders,  and  Death-warrants — the  providing  of  its  doomed  hu- 
man meal  for  the  all-devouring  guillotine — could  have  been  man- 
aged so  coolly  and  quietly,  with  such  unruffled  calmness  of  official 
routine  ? 

"  Now,"  said  Lomaque,  turning  to  the  two  men  at  the  desk,  as  the 
door  closed,  "have  you  got  those  notes  about  you?"  (They  an- 
swered in  the  affirmative.)  "  Picard,  you  have  the  first  particulars 
of  this  affair  of  Trudaine ;  so  you  must  begin  reading.  I  have  sent 
in  the  reports;  but  we  may  as  well  go  over  the  evidence  again  from 
the  commencement,  to  make  sure  that  nothing  has  been  left  out.  If 
any  corrections  are  to  be  made,  now  is  the  time  to  make  them.  Read, 
Picard,  and  lose  as  little  time  as  you  possibly  can." 

Thus  admonished,  Picard  drew  some  long  slips  of  paper  from  his 
pocket,  and  began  reading  from  them  as  follows : 

"  Minutes  of  evidence  collected  concerning  Louis  Trudaine,  sus- 
pected, on  the  denunciation  of  Citizen  Superintendent  Danville,  of 
hostility  to  the  sacred  cause  of  liberty,  and  of  disaffection  to  the 
sovereignty  of  the  people.  (1.)  The  suspected  person  is  placed  un- 
der secret  observation,  and  these  facts  are  elicited :  He  is  twice 
seen  passing  at  night  from  his  own  house  to  a  house  in  the  Rue  de 
Cle'ry.  On  the  first  night  he  carries  with  him  money — on  the  sec- 
ond, papers.  He  returns  without  either.  These  particulars  have 
been  obtained  through  a  citizen  engaged  to  help  Trudaine  in  house- 
keeping (one  of  the  sort  called  Servants  in  the  days  of  the  Tyrants). 
This  man  is  a  good  patriot,  who  can  be  trusted  to  watch  Trudaine's 
actions.  (2.)  The  inmates  of  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  C16ry  are  nu- 
merous, and  in  some  cases  not  so  well  known  to  the  Government  as 
could  be  wished.  It  is  found  difficult  to  gain  certain  information 
about  the  person  or  persons  visited  by  Trudaine  without  having  re- 
course to  an  arrest.  (3.)  An  arrest  is  thought  premature  at  this  pre- 
liminary stage  of  the  proceedings,  being  likely  to  stop  the  develop- 
ment of  conspiracy,  and  give  warning  to  the  guilty  to  fly.  Order 
thereupon  given  to  watch  and  wait  for  the  present.  (4.)  Citizen 
Superintendent  Danville  quits  Paris  for  a  short  time.  The  office 
of  watching  Trudaine  is  then  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  the  under- 
signed, and  is  confided  to  his  comrade,  Magloire. — Signed,  PICARD. 
Countersigned,  LOMAQUE." 

Having  read  so  far,  the  police  agent  placed  his  papers  on  the  writ- 
ing-table, waited  a  moment  for  orders,  and,  receiving  none,  went 
out.  No  change  came  over  the  sadness  and  perplexity  of  Lo- 
maque's  face.  He  still  beat  his  nails  anxiously  on  the  writing-table, 
and  did  not  even  look  at  the  second  agent  as  he  ordered  the  man 
to  read  his  report.  Magloire  produced  some  slips  of  paper  precisely 


SISTER  ROSE.  dl 

similar  to  Picard's.  and  read  from  them  in  the  same  rapid,  business- 
like, unmodulated  tones : 

-  A  Hair  of  Trudaine.  Minutes  continued.  Citizen  Agent  Magloire 
having  been  appointed  to  continue  the  surveillance  of  Trudaine,  re- 
ports the  discovery  of  additional  facts  of  importance.  (1.)  Appear- 
ances make  it  probable  that  Trudaine  meditates  a  third  secret  \  i-it 
to  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Cle"ry.  The  proper  measures  are  taken 
for  observing  him  closely,  and  the  result  is  the  implication  of  an- 
other person  discovered  to  be  connected  with  the  supposed  conspir- 
acy. This  person  is  the  sister  of  Trudaine,  and  the  wife  of  Citizen 
Superintendent  Danville." 

"  Poor,  lost  creature  !  ah,  poor,  lost  creature !"  muttered  Lomaque 
to  himself,  sighing  again,  and  shifting  uneasily  from  side  to  side,  in 
his  mangy  old  leathern  arm-chair.  Apparently,  Magloire  was  not 
accustomed  to  sighs,  interruptions,  and  expressions  of  regret  from 
the  usually  imperturbable  chief  agent.  He  looked  up  from  his  pa- 
pers with  a  stare  of  wonder.  "  Go  on,  Magloire !"  cried  Lomaque, 
with  a  sudden  outburst  of  irritability.  "Why  the  devil  don't  you 
go  on  ?" — "  All  ready,  citizen,"  returned  Magloire,  submissively,  and 
proceeded : 

"  (2.)  It  is  at  Trudaine's  house  that  the  woman  Danville's  con- 
nection with  her  brother's  secret  designs  is  ascertained,  through  the 
vigilance  of  the  before-mentioned  patriot  citizen.  The  interview  of 
the  two  suspected  persons  is  private ;  their  conversation  is  carried 
on  in  whispers.  Little  can  be  overheard ;  but  that  little  suffices  to 
prove  that  Trudaine's  sister  is  perfectly  aware  of  his  intention  to 
proceed  for  the  third  time  to  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Clery.  It  is 
further  discovered  that  she  awnits  his  return,  and  that  she  then  goes 
hack  privately  to  her  own  house.  (3.)  Meanwhile  the  strictest 
measures  are  taken  for  watching  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Clery.  It 
is  discovered  that  Trudaine's  visits  are  paid  to  a  man  and  woman 
known  to  the  landlord  and  lodgers  by  the  name  of  Dubois.  They 
live  on  the  fourth  floor.  It  is  impossible,  at  the  time  of  the  discov- 
ery, to  enter  this  room,  or  to  see  the  citizen  and  citoyenne  Dubois, 
without  producing  an  undesirable  disturbance  in  the  house  and 
neighborhood.  A  police  agent  is  left  to  watch  the  place,  while 
search  and  arrest  orders  are  applied  for.  The  granting  of  these  is 
accidentally  delayed.  When  they  are  ultimately  obtained,  it  is  dis- 
covered that  the  man  and  the  woman  are  both  missing.  They  have 
not  hitherto  been  traced.  (4.)  The  landlord  of  the  house  is  imme- 
diately arrested,  as  well  as  the  police  agent  appointed  to  watch  the 
premises.  The  landlord  protests  that  he  knows  nothing  of  his  ten 


92  AFTER  DARK. 

ants.  It  is  suspected,  however,  that  he  has  been  tampered  with,  as 
also  that  Trudaine's  papers,  delivered  to  the  citizen  and  citoyenne 
Dubois,  are  forged  passports.  With  these  and  with  money,  it  may 
not  be  impossible  that  they  have  already  succeeded  in  escaping 
from  France.  The  proper  measures  have  been  taken  for  stopping 
them,  if  they  have  not  yet  passed  the  frontiers.  No  further  report 
in  relation  to  them  has  yet  been  received,  (5.)  Trudaine  and  his 
sister  are  under  perpetual  surveillance,  and  the  undersigned  holds 
himself  ready  for  further  orders.  —  Signed,  MAGLOIRE.  Counter- 
signed, LOMAQUE." 

Having  finished  reading  his  notes,  Magloire  placed  them  on  the 
writing-table.  He  was  evidently  a  favored  man  in  the  office,  and 
he  presumed  upon  his  position ;  for  he  ventured  to  make  a  remark, 
instead  of  leaving  the  room  in  silence,  like  his  predecessor  Picard. 

"  When  Citizen  Danville  returns  to  Paris,"  he  began,  "  he  will  be 
rather  astonished  to  find  that  in  denouncing  his  wife's  brother  he 
has  also  unconsciously  denounced  his  wife." 

Lomaque  looked  up  quickly,  with  that  old  weakness  in  his  eyes 
which  affected  them  in  such  a  strangely  irregular  manner  on  certain 
occasions.  Magloire  knew  what  this  symptom  meant,  and  would 
have  become,  confused  if  he  had  not  been  a  police  agent.  As  it 
was,  he  quietly  backed  a  step  or  two  from  the  table,  and  held  his 
tongue. 

"  Friend  Magloire,"  said  Lomaque,  winking  mildly,  "  your  last  re- 
mark looks  to  me  like  a  question  in  disguise.  I  put  questions  con- 
stantly to  others;  I  never  answer  questions  myself.  You  want  to 
know,  citizen,  wThat  our  superintendent's  secret  motive  is  for  de- 
nouncing his  wife's  brother  ?  Suppose  you  try  and  find  that  out 
for  yourself.  It  will  be  famous  practice  for  you,  friend  Magloire — 
famous  practice  after  office  hours." 

"  Any  further  orders  ?"  inquired  Magloire,  sulkily. 

"  None  in  relation  to  the  reports,"  returned  Lomaque.  "  I  find 
nothing  to  alter  or  add  on  a  revised  hearing.  But  I  shall  have  a 
little  note  ready  for  you  immediately.  Sit  down  at  the  other  desk, 
friend  Magloire ;  I  am  very  fond  of  you  when  you  are  not  inquis- 
itive ;  pray  sit  down." 

While  addressing  this  polite  invitation  to  the  agent  in  his  softest 
voice,  Lomaque  produced  his  pocket-book,  and  drew  from  it  a  little 
note,  which  he  opened  and  read  through  attentively.  It  was  head- 
ed, "  Private  Instructions  relative  to  Superintendent  Danville,"  and 
proceeded  thus : 

"  The  undersigned  can  confidently  assert,  from  long  domestic  ex- 
perience in  Danville's  household,  that  his  motive  for  denouncing  his 
wife's  brother  is  purely  a  personal  one,  and  is  not  in  the  most  re- 


SISTER   ROSE.  93 

mote  degree  connected  with  politics.  Briefly,  the  facts  are  these: 
Louis  TrucluiiH',  from  the  first,  opposed  his  sister's  marriage  with 
Danville,  distrusting  the  hitter's  temper  and  disposition.  The  mar- 
riage, however,  took  place,  and  the  brother  resigned  himself  to 
await  n-sults — taking  the  precaution  of  living  in  the  same  neigh- 
borhood as  his  sister,  to  interpose,  if  need  be,  between  the  crimes 
which  the  husband  might  commit  and  the  sufferings  which  the  wife 
might  endure.  The  results  soon  exceeded  his  worst  anticipations, 
and  called  for  the  interposition  for  which  he  had  prepared  himself. 
He  is  a  man  of  inflexible  firmness,  patience,  and  integrity,  and  he 
makes  the  protection  and  consolation  of  his  sister  the  business  of 
his  life.  He  gives  his  brother-in-law  no  pretext  for  openly  quarrel- 
ing with  him.  He  is  neither  to  be  deceived,  irritated,  nor  tired  out, 
and  he  is  Danville's  superior  every  way — in  conduct,  temper,  and 
capacity.  Under  these  circumstances,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
his  brother-in-law's  enmity  toward  him  is  of  the  most  implacable 
kind,  and  equally  unnecessary  to  hint  at  the  perfectly  plain  motive 
of  the  denunciation. 

"  As  to  the  suspicious  circumstances  affecting  not  Trudaine  only, 
but  his  sister  as  well,  the  undersigned  regrets  his  inability,  thus  far, 
to  offer  either  explanation  or  suggestion.  At  this  preliminary  stage, 
the  affair  seems  involved  in  impenetrable  mystery." 

Lomaque  read  these  lines  through,  down  to  his  own  signature  at 
the  end.  They  were  the  duplicate  Secret  Instructions  demanded 
from  him  in  the  paper  which  he  had  been  looking  over  before  the 
entrance  of  the  two  police  agents.  Slowly  and,  as  it  seemed,  unwill- 
ingly, he  folded  the  note  up  in  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper,  and  was  pre- 
paring to  seal  it  when  a  tap  at  the  door  stopped  him.  "  Come  in," 
he  cried,  irritably ;  and  a  man  in  traveling  costume,  covered  with 
dust,  entered,  quietly  whispered  a  word  or  two  in  his  ear,  and  then 
went  out.  Lomaque  started  at  the  whisper,  and,  opening  his  note 
again,  hastily  wrote  under  his  signature :  "  I  have  just  heard  that 
Danville  has  hastened  his  return  to  Paris,  and  may  be  expected 
back  to-night."  Having  traced  these  lines,  he  closed,  sealed,  and 
directed  the  letter,  and  gave  it  to  Magloire.  The  police  agent  look- 
ed at  the  address  as  he  left  the  room;  it  was  "To  Citizen  Robes- 
pierre, Rue  Saint-Honor^." 

Left  alone  again,  Lomaque  rose,  and  walked  restlessly  backward 
and  forward,  luting  his  nails. 

"Danville  comes  back  to-night,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  the  cri- 
sis comes  with  him.  Trudaine  a  conspirator!  Bah  !  conspiracy  can 
hardly  he  the  answer  to  the  riddle  this  time.  What  is?" 

He  took  a  turn  or  two  in  silence — then  stopped  at  the  open  win- 
dow, looking  out  on  what  little  glimpse  the  street  afforded  him  of 
the  sunset  sky. 


94  AFTEK   DARK. 

"  This  time  five  years,"  he  said,  "  Tmdaine  was  talking  to  me  on 
that  bench  overlooking  the  river;  and  Sister  Rose  was  keeping 
poor  hatchet-faced  old  Lomaque's  cup  of  coffee  hot  for  him  !  Now 
I  am  officially  bound  to  suspect  them  both ;  perhaps  to  arrest  them  ; 
perhaps — I  wish  this  job  had  fallen  into  other  hands.  I  don't  want 
it — I  don't  want  it  at  any  price !" 

He  returned  to  the  writing-table  and  sat  down  to  his  papers,  with 
the  dogged  air  of  a  man  determined  to  drive  away  vexing  thoughts 
by  dint  of  sheer  hard  work.  For  more  than  an  hour  he  labored  on 
resolutely,  munching  a  bit  of  dry  bread  from  time  to  time.  Then  he 
paused  a  little,  and  began  to  think  again.  Gradually  the  summer 
twilight  faded,  and  the  room  grew  dark. 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  tide  over  to-night,  after  all  —  who  knows  ?" 
said  Lomaque,  ringing  his  hand-bell  for  lights.  They  were  brought 
in,  •and"  with  them  ominously  returned  the  police  agent  Magloire 
with  a  small  sealed  packet.  It  contained  an  arrest  order  and  a  tiny 
three-cornered  note,  looking  more  like  a  love-letter,  or  a  lady's  invi- 
tation to  a  party,  than  any  thing  else.  Lomaque  opened  the  note 
eagerly  and  read  these  lines,  neatly  written,  and  signed  with  Robes- 
pierre's initials — M.  R. — formed  elegantly  in  cipher  : 

"Arrest  Trudaine  and  his  sister  to-night.  On  second  thoughts, 
I  am  not  sure,  if  Danville  comes  back  in  time  to  be  present,  that  it 
may  not  be  all  the  better.  He  is  unprepared  for  his  wife's  arrest. 
Watch  him  closely  when  it  takes  place,  and  report  privately  to  me. 
I  am  afraid  he  is  a  vicious  man  ;  and  of  all  things  I  abhor  Vice." 

"  Any  more  work  for  me  to-night  ?"  asked  Magloire,  with  a  yawn. 

"  Only  an  arrest,"  replied  Lomaque.  "  Collect  our  men ;  and  when 
you're  ready  get  a  coach  at  the  door." 

"  We  were  just  going  to  supper,"  grumbled  Magloire  to  himself, 
as  he  went  out.  "  The  devil  seize  the  Aristocrats !  They're  all  in 
such  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  guillotine,  that  they  won't  even  give  a 
man  time  to  eat  his  victuals  in  peace !" 

"  There's  no  choice  now,"  muttered  Lomaque,  angrily  thrusting 
the  arrest  order  and  the  three-cornered  note  into  his  pocket.  "  His 
father  was  the  saving  of  me;  he  himself  welcomed  me  like  an  equal; 
his  sister  treated  me  like  a  gentleman,  as  the  phrase  went  in  those 
days  ;  and  now — " 

He  stopped  and  wiped  his  forehead — then  unlocked  his  desk,  pro- 
duced a  bottle  of  brandy,  and  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  the  liq- 
uor, which  he  drank  by  sips,  slowly. 

"I  wonder  whether  other  men  get  softer  -  hearted  as  they  grow 
older  ?"  he  said.  "  I  seem  to  do  so,  at  any  rate.  Courage !  cour- 
age! what  must  be,  must.  If  I  risked  my  head  to  do  it,  I  couldn't 
stop  this  arrest.  Not  a  man  in  the  office  but  would  be  ready  to  ex- 
ecute it,  if  I  wasn't," 


SISTER  ROSE.  95 

Here  the  rumble  of  carriage-wheels  sounded  outside. 

'•  There's  the  coach  !"  exclaimed  Lomaque,  locking  up  the  brandy- 
bottle,  and  taking  his  hat.  "After  all,  as  this  arrest  is  to  be  made, 
it's  as  well  for  them  that  I  should  make  it." 

Consoling  himself  as  he  best  could  with  this  reflection,  Chief  Po- 
lice Agent  Lomaque  blew  out  the  candles,  and  quitted  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IL 

IGNORANT  of  the  change  in  her  husband's  plans,  which  was  to 
bring  him  back  to  Paris  a  day  before  the  time  that  had  been  fixed 
fur  liis  return,  Sister  Rose  had  left  her  solitary  home  to  spend  the 
evening  with  her  brother.  They  had  sat  talking  together  long  after 
sunset,  and  had  let  the  darkness  steal  on  them  insensibly,  as  people 
will  who  are  only  occupied  with  quiet,  familiar  conversation.  Thus 
it  happened,  by  a  curious  coincidence,  that  just  as  Lomaque  was 
blowing  out  his  candles  at  the  office  Rose  was  lighting  the  reading- 
lamp  at  her  brother's  lodgings. 

Five  years  of  disappointment  and  sorrow  had  sadly  changed  her 
to  outward  view.  Her  face  looked  thinner  and  longer;  the  once 
delicate  red  and  white  of  her  complexion  was  gone;  her  figure  had 
wasted  under  the  influence  of  some  weakness,  which  had  already 
made  her  stoop  a  little  when  she  walked.  Her  manner  had  lost  its 
maiden  shyness,  only  to  become  unnaturally  quiet  and  subdued.  Of 
all  the  charms  which  had  so  fatally,  yet  so  innocently,  allured  her 
heartless  husband,  but  one  remained — the  winning  gentleness  of  her 
voice.  It  might  be  touched  now  and  then  with  a  note  of  sadness, 
but  the  soft  attraction  of  its  even,  natural  tone  still  remained.  In 
the  marring  of  all  other  harmonies,  this  one  harmony  had  been 
preserved  unchanged.  Her  brother,  though  his  face  was  care-worn, 
and  his  manner  sadder  than  of  old,  looked  less  altered  from  his  for- 
mer self.  It  is  the  most  fragile  material  which  soonest  shows  the 
flaw.  The  world's  idol,  Beauty,  holds  its  frailest  tenure  of  existence 
in  the  one  Temple  where  we  most  love  to  worship  it. 

"And  so  you  think,  Louis,  that  our  perilous  undertaking  has  re- 
ally ended  well  by  this  time  ?"  said  Rose,  anxiously,  as  she  lit  the 
lamp  and  placed  the  glass  shade  over  it.  "  What  a  relief  it  is  only 
to  hear  you  say  you  think  we  have  succeeded  at  last !" 

"  I  said  I  hope,  Rose,"  replied  her  brother. 

"  Well,  even  hoped  is  a  great  word  from  you,  Louis — a  great  word 
from  any  one  in  this  fearful  city,  and  in  these  days  of  Terror." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  seeing  her  brother  raise  his  hand  in  warn- 
ing. They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  and  listened.  The  sound 


96  AFTER   DARK. 

of  footsteps  going  slowly  past  the  house — ceasing  for  a  moment  just 
beyond  it — then  going  on  again — came  through  the  open  window. 
There  was  nothing  else,  out-of-doors  or  in,  to  disturb  the  silence  of 
the  night — the  deadly  silence  of  Terror  which,  for  months  past,  had 
hung  over  Paris.  It  was  a  significant  sign  of  the  times,  that  even  a 
passing  footstep,  sounding  a  little  strangely  at  night,  was  subject 
for  suspicion,  both  to  brother  and  sister — so  common  a  subject,  that 
they  suspended  their  conversation  as  a  matter  of  course,  without  ex- 
changing a  word  of  explanation,  until  the  tramp  of  the  strange  foot- 
steps had  died  away. 

"  Louis,"  continued  Rose,  dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  after 
nothing  more  was  audible,  "  when  may  I  trust  our  secret  to  my  hus- 
band ?" 

"  Not  yet !"  rejoined  Trudaine,  earnestly.  "  Not  a  word,  not  a 
hint  of  it,  till  I  give  you  leave.  Remember,  Rose,  you  promised 
silence  from  the  first.  Every  thing  depends  on  your  holding  that 
promise  sacred  till  I  release  you  from  it." 

"  I  will  hold  it  sacred ;  I  will  indeed,  at  all  hazards,  under  all 
provocations,"  she  answered. 

"  That  is  quite  enough  to  re-assure  me  —  and  now,  love,  let  us 
change  the  subject.  Even  these  walls  may  have  ears,  and  the  closed 
door  yonder  may  be  no  protection."  He  looked  toward  it  uneasily 
while  he  spoke.  "  By-the-bye,  I  have  come  round  to  your  way  of 
thinking,  Rose,  about  that  new  servant  of  mine — there  is  something 
false  in  his  face.  I  wish  I  had  been  as  quick  to  detect  it  as  you 
were."  ^ 

Rose  glanced  at  him  affrightedly.  "  Has  he  done  any  thing  sus- 
picious ?  Have  you  caught  him  watching  you  ?  Tell  me  the  worst, 
Louis." 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  my  dear,  not  so  loud.  Don't  alarm  yourself;  he 
has  done  nothing  suspicious." 

"  Turn  him  off — pray,  pray  turn  him  off,  before  it  is  too  late !" 

"And  be  denounced  by  him, in  revenge,  the  first  night  he  goes  to 
his  Section.  You  forget  that  servants  and  masters  are  equal  now. 
I  am  not  supposed  to  keep  a  servant  at  all.  I  have  a  citizen  living 
with  me  who  lays  me  under  domestic  obligations,  for  which  I  make 
a  pecuniary  acknowledgment.  No  !  no  !  if  I  do  any  thing,  I  must 
try  if  I  can't  entrap  him  into  giving  me  warning.  But  we  have  got 
to  another  unpleasant  subject  already — suppose  I  change  the  topic 
again  ?  You  will  find  a  little  book  on  that  table  there,  in  the  cor- 
ner— tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

The  book  was  a  copy  of  Corneille's  Cid,  prettily  bound  in  blue 
morocco.  Rose  was  enthusiastic  in  her  praises.  "  I  found  it  in  a 
book-seller's  shop,  yesterday,"  said  her  brother,  "  and  bought  it  as  a 
present  for  you.  Corneille  is  not  an  author  to  compromise  any  one, 


SISTER  ROBE.  97 

•  •veil  in  these  times.  Don't  you  remember  saying  the  other  day  that 
you  felt  asluiiiu'd  of  knowing  but  little  of  our  greatest  dramatist?" 
Hose  rciiiriiilx Ted  well,  and  smiled  almost  as  happily  as  in  the  old 
times  over  her  present.  "There  are  some  good  engravings  at  the 
begin:! ing  of  each  act,"  continued  Trudaine,  directing  her  attention 
rather  earnestly  to  the  illustrations,  and  then  suddenly  leaving  her 
side  when  he  saw  that  she  became  interested  in  looking  at  them. 

He  went  to  the  window — listened — then  drew  aside  the  curtain, 
and  looked  up  and  down  the  street.  No  living  soul  was  in  sight. 
"  I  must  have  been  mistaken,"  he  thought,  returning  hastily  to  his 
sister ;  "  but  I  certainly  fancied  I  was  followed  in  my  walk  to-day 
by  a  spy." 

••  I  wonder,"  asked  Rose,  still  busy  over  her  book,  "I  wonder, 
Louis,  whether  my  husband  would  let  me  go  with  you  to  see  Le  Cid 
the  next  time  it  is  acted." 

"  No  !"  cried  a  voice  at  the  door ;  "  not  if  you  went  on  your  knees 
to  ask  him." 

Rose  turned  round  with  a  scream.  There  stood  her  husband  on 
the  threshold,  scowling  at  her,  with  his  hat  on,  and  his  hands  thrust 
doggedly  into  his  pockets.  Trudaine's  servant  announced  him,  with 
an  insolent  smile,  during  the  pause  that  followed  the  discovery.  Cit- 
i/en  Superintendent  Danville,  to  visit  the  citoyenne,  his  wife,"  said 
the  fellow,  making  a  mock  bow  to  his  master. 

Rose  looked  at  her  brother,  then  advanced  a  few  paces  toward  the 
door.  "  This  is  a  surprise,"  she  said,  faintly ;  "  has  any  thing  hap- 
pened ?  We — we  didn't  expect  you."  Her  voice  failed  her,  as  she 
saw  her  husband  advancing,  pale  to  his  very  lips  with  suppressed 
anger. 

"How  dare  you  come  here,  after  what  I  told  you?"  he  asked,  in 
quick,  low  tones. 

She  shrank  at  his  voice  almost  as  if  he  had  struck  her.  The  blood 
flew  into  her  brother's  face  as  he  noticed  the  action ;  but  he  control- 
led himself,  and,  taking  her  hand, led  her  in  silence  to  a  chair. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  sit  down  in  his  house,"  said  Danville,  advancing 
still ;  "  I  order  you  to  come  back  with  me !  Do  you  hear?  I  order 
you." 

He  was  approaching  nearer  to  her,  when  he  caught  Trudaine's  eye 
fixed  on  him,  and  stopped.  Rose  started  up,  and  placed  herself  be- 
tween  them. 

"Oh,  Charles,  Charles!"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "be  friends  with 
Louis  to-night,  and  be  kind  again  to  me.  I  have  a  claim  to  ask  that 
mucli  of  you,  though  you  may  not  think  it!" 

He  turned  away  from  her,  and  laughed  contemptuously.  She 
tried  to  speak  again,  but  Trudaine  touched  her  on  the  arm,  and 
gave  her  a  warning  look. 

4* 


98  AFTER    DARK. 

"  Signals !"  exclaimed  Danville ;  "  secret  signals  between  you !" 

His  eye,  as  he  glanced  suspiciously  at  his  wife,  fell  on  Trudaine's 
gift-book,  which  she  still  held  unconsciously. 

"  What  book  is  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Only  a  play  of  Corneille's,"  answered  Rose ;  "  Louis  has  just 
made  me  a  present  of  it." 

At  this  avowal  Danville's  suppressed  anger  burst  beyond  all  con- 
trol. 

"  Give  it  him  back !"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  fury.  "  You  shall 
take  no  presents  from  him ;  the  venom  of  the  household  spy  soils 
every  thing  he  touches.  Give  it  him  back !"  She  hesitated.  "  You 
won't  ?"  He  tore  the  book  from  her  with  an  oath,  threw  it  on  the 
floor,  and  set  his  foot  on  it. 

"  Oh,  Louis !  Louis !  for  God's  sake,  remember !" 

Trudaine  was  stepping  forward  as  the  book  fell  to  the  floor.  At 
the  same  moment  his  sister  threw  her  arms  round  him.  He  stopped, 
turning  from  fiery  red  to  ghastly  pale. 

"No,  no,  Louis!"  she  said,  clasping  him  closer;  "not  after  five 
years'  patience.  "No — no  !" 

He  gently  detached  her  arms. 

"  You  are  right,  love.     Don't  be  afraid ;  it  is  all  over  now." 

Saying  that,  he  put  her  from  him,  and  in  silence  took  up  the  book 
from  the  floor. 

"  Won't  that  offend  you  even  ?"  said  Danville,  with  an  insolent 
smile.  "  You  have  a  wonderful  temper — any  other  man  would  have 
called  me  out !" 

Trudaine  looked  back  at  him  steadily ;  and,  taking  out  his  hand- 
kerchief, passed  it  over  the  soiled  cover  of  the  book. 

"  If  I  could  wipe  the  stain  of  your  blood  off  my  conscience  as  easi- 
ly as  I  can  wipe  the  stain  of  your  boot  off  this  book,"  he  said  quiet- 
ly, "  you  should  not  live  another  hour.  Don't  cry,  Rose,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  again  to  his  sister;  "  I  will  take  care  of  your  book 
for  you  until  you  can  keep  it  yourself." 

"  Yrfu  will  do  this !  you  will  do  that !"  cried  Danville,  growing 
more  and  more  exasperated,  and  letting  his  anger  get  the  better  even 
of  his  cunning  now.  "Talk  less  confidently  of  the  future  —  you 
don't  know  what  it  has  in  store  for  you.  Govern  your  tongue  when 
you  are  in  my  presence ;  a  day  may  come  when  you  will  want  my 
help — my  help ;  do  you  hear  that  ?" 

Trudaine  turned  his  face  from  his  sister,  as  if  he  feared  to  let  her 
see  it  when  those  words  were  spoken. 

"  The  man  who  followed  me  to-day  was  a  spy — Danville's  spy !" 
That  thought  flashed  across  his  mind,  but  he  gave  it  no  utterance. 
There  was  an  instant's  pause  of  silence ;  and  through  it  there  came 
heavily  on  the  still  night  air  the  rumbling  of  distant  wheels.  The 


SISTER  ROSE.  99 

sound  advanced  nearer  and  nearer — advanced  and  ceased  under  the 
window. 

Danville  hurried  to  it,  and  looked  out  eagerly. 

"  I  have  not  hastened  my  return  without  reason.  I  wouldn't  have 
missed  this  arrest  for  any  thing !"  thought  he,  peering  into  the  night. 

The  stars  were  out,  but  there  was  no  moon.  He  could  not  recog- 
nize either  the  coach  or  the  persons  who  got  out  of  it,  and  he  turn- 
ed again  into  the  interior  of  the  room.  His  wife  had  sunk  into  a 
chair,  her  brother  was  locking  up  in  a  cabinet  the  book  which  he 
had  promised  to  take  care  of  for  her.  The  dead  silence  made  the 
noise  of  slowly  ascending  footsteps  on  the  stairs  painfully  audible. 
At  last  the  door  opened  softly. 

"Citizen  Danville,  health  and  fraternity!"  said  Lomaque,  appear- 
ing in  the  door-way,  followed  by  his  agents.  "  Citizen  Louis  Tru- 
daine  ?"  he  continued,  beginning  with  the  usual  form. 

Rose  started  out  of  her  chair;  but  her  brother's  hand  was  on  her 
lips  before  she  could  speak'. 

"  My  name  is  Louis  Trudaine,"  he  answered. 

-Charles!"  cried  his  sister,  breaking  from  him  and  appealing  to 
her  husband,  "  who  are  these  men  ?  What  are  they  here  for  ?" 

He  gave  her  no  answer. 

"  Louis  Trudaine,"  said  Lomaque,  slowly  drawing  the  order  from 
his  pocket,  "  in  the  name  of  the  Republic,  I  arrest  you." 

"  Rose,  come  back,"  cried  Trudaine. 

It  was  too  late ;  she  had  broken  from  him,  and,  in  the  recklessness 
of  terror,  had  seized  her  husband  by  the  arm. 

"  Save  him  !"  she  cried.  "  Save  him,  by  all  you  hold  dearest  in 
the  world  !  You  are  that  man's  superior,  Charles — order  him  from 
the  room !" 

Danville  roughly  shook  her  hand  off  his  arm. 

"  Lomaque  is  doing  his  duty.  Yes,"  he  added,  with  a  glance  of 
malicious  triumph  at  Trudaine,  "  yes,  doing  his  duty.  Look  at  me 
as  you  please  —  your  looks  won't  move  me.  I  denounced  you !  I 
admit  it — I  glory  in  it!  I  have  rid  myself  of  an  enemy,  and  the 
State  of  a  bad  citizen.  Remember  your  secret  visits  to  the  house 
in  the  Rue  de  Clery  !" 

His  wife  uttered  a  cry  of  horror.  She  seized  his  arm  again  with 
both  hands — frail,  trembling  hands — that  seemed  suddenly  nerved 
with  all  the  strength  of  a  man's. 

"  Come  here — come  here  !    I  must  and  will  speak  to  you !" 

She  dragged  him  by  main  force  a  few  paces  back,  toward  an  un- 
occupied corner  of  the  room.  With  deathly  cheeks  and  wild  eyes 
she  raised  herself  on  tiptoe,  and  put  her  lips  to  her  husband's  ear. 
At  that  instant  Trudaine  called  to  her: 

"  Rose,  if  you  speak  I  am  lost !" 


100  AFTER  DARK. 

She  stopped  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  dropped  her  hold  on  her 
husband's  arm,  and  faced  her  brother,  shuddering. 

"  Rose,"  he  continued,  "  you  have  promised,  and  your  promise  is 
sacred.  If  you  prize  your  honor,  if  you  love  me,  come  here — come 
here,  and  be  silent." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  ran  to  him ;  and,  laying  her  head  on 
his  bosom,  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

Danville  turned  uneasily  toward  the  police  agents.  "Remove 
your  prisoner,"  he  said.  "  You  have  done  your  duty  here." 

"  Only  half  of  it,"  retorted  Lomaque,  eying  him  attentively. 
"  Rose  Danville—" 

"  My  wife !"  exclaimed  the  other.     "  What  about  my  wife  ?" 

"  Rose  Danville,"  continued  Lomaque,  impassibly.  "  you  are  in- 
cluded in  the  arrest  of  Louis  Trudaine." 

Rose  raised  her  head  quickly  from  her  brother's  breast.  His 
firmness  had  deserted  him  —  he  was  trembling.  She  heard  him 
whispering  to  himself,  "  Rose,  too  !  Oh,  my  God !  I  was  not  pre- 
pared for  that."  She  heard  these  words,  and  dashed  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  and  kissed  him,  saying, 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Louis.  We  risked  all  together — we  shall  now 
suffer  together.  I  am  glad  of  it !" 

Danville  looked  incredulously  at  Lomaque,  after  the  first  shock 
of  astonishment  was  over. 

"  Impossible !"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  never  denounced  my  wife. 
There  is  some  mistake ;  you  have  exceeded  your  orders." 

"  Silence !"  retorted  Lomaque,  imperiously.  "  Silence,  citizen, 
and  respect  to  a  decree  of  the  Republic !" 

"  You  blackguard !  show  me  the  arrest  order !"  said  Danville. 
"  Who  has  dared  to  denounce  my  wife  ?"  •• 

"  You  have !"  said  Lomaque,  turning  on  him  with  a  grin  of  con- 
tempt. "  You — and  '  blackguard '  back  in  your  teeth !  You,  in  de- 
nouncing her  brother !  Aha !  we  work  hard  in  our  office ;  we  don't 
waste  time  in  calling  names — we  make  discoveries.  If  Trudaine  is 
guilty,  your  wife  is  implicated  in  his  guilt.  We  know  it ;  and  we 
arrest  her." 

"  I  resist  the  arrest,"  cried  Danville.  "  I  am  the  authority  here. 
Who  opposes  me  ?" 

The  impassible  chief  agent  made  no  answer.  Some  new  noise  in 
the  street  struck  his  quick  ear.  He  ran  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  eagerly. 

"  Who  opposes  me  ?"  reiterated  Danville. 

"  Hark  !"  exclaimed  Lomaque,  raising  his  hand.  "  Silence,  and 
listen !" 

The  heavy,  dull  tramp  of  men  marching  together  became  audible 
as  he  spoke.  Voices  humming  low  and  in  unison  the  Marseillaise 


SISTER   ROSE.  101 

hymn,  joined  solemnly  with  the  heavy,  regular  footfalls.  Soon  the 
flare  of  torch-light  began  to  glimmer  redder  and  redder  under  the 
dim,  starlight  sky. 

"Do  you  hear  that?  Do  you  see  the  advancing  torch  -light  ?" 
cried  Lomaque,  pointing  exultingly  into  the  street.  "  Respect  to 
the  national  hymn,  and  to  the  man  who  holds  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand  the  destinies  of  all  France  !  Hat  off,  Citizen  Danville !  Robes- 
pierre is  in  the  street.  His  body-guard,  the  Hard-hitters,  are  light- 
ing him  on  his  way  to  the  Jacobin  Club !  Who  shall  oppose  you, 
did  you  say  ?  Your  master  and  mine ;  the  man  whose  signature  is 
at  the  bottom  of  this  order  —  the  man  who  with  a  scratch  of  his 
pen  can  send  both  our  heads  rolling  together  into  the  sack  of  the 
guillotine !  Shall  I  call  to  him  as  he  passes  the  house  ?  Shall  I  tell 
him  that  Superintendent  Danville  resists  me  in  making  an  arrest? 
Shall  I?  Shall  I?"  And  in  the  immensity  of  his  contempt,  Lo- 
maque seemed  absolutely  to  rise  in  stature,  as  he  thrust  the  arrest 
order  under  Danville's  ejes  and  pointed  to  the  signature  with  the 
head  of  his  stick. 

Rose  looked  round  in  terror,  as  Lomaque  spoke  his  last  words — 
looked  round,  and  saw  her  husband  recoil  before  the  signature  on 
the  arrest  order,  as  if  the  guillotine  itself  had  suddenly  arisen  before 
him.  Her  brother  felt  her  shrinking  back  in  his  arms,  and  trembled 
for  the  preservation  of  her  self-control  if  the  terror  and  suspense  of 
the  arrest  lasted  any  longer. 

"  Courage,  Rose,  courage  !"  he  said.  "  You  have  behaved  nobly ; 
you  must  not  fail  now.  No,  no !  Not  a  word  more.  Not  a  word 
till  I  am  able  to  think  clearly  again,  and  to  decide  what  is  best. 
Courage,  love ;  our  lives  depend  on  it.  Citizen,"  he  continued,  ad- 
drffssing  himself  to  Lomaque,  "proceed  with  your  duty  —  we  are 
ready." 

The  heavy  marching  footsteps  outside  were  striking  louder  and 
louder  on  the  ground ;  the  chanting  voices  were  every  moment 
swelling  in  volume ;  the  dark  street  was  flaming  again  with  the 
brightening  torch-light,  as  Lomaque,  under  pretext  of  giving  Tru- 
daine  his  hat,  came  close  to  him.  and.  turning  his  back  toward  Dan- 
ville, whispered,  "  I  have  not  forgotten  the  eve  of  the  wedding  and 
the  bench  on  the  river  bank." 

Before  Trudaine  could  answer,  he  had  taken  Rose's  cloak  and 
hood  from  one  of  his  assistants,  and  was  helping  her  on  with  it. 
Danville,  still  pale  and  trembling,  advanced  a  step  when  he  saw 
these  preparations  for  departure,  and  addressed  a  word  or  two  to 
his  wife;  but  he  spoke  in  low  tones,  and  the  fast-advancing  march 
of  feet  and  sullen  low  roar  of  singing  outside  drowned  his  voice. 
An  oath  burst  from  his  lips,  and  he  struck  his  fist,  in  impotent  fury, 
on  a  table  near  him. 


102  AFTER   DARK. 

"  The  seals  are  set  on  every  thing  in  this  room  and  in  the  bed- 
room," said  Magloire,  approaching  Lomaque,  who  nodded  and  sign- 
ed to  him  to  bring  up  the  other  police  agents  at  the  door. 

"  Ready,"  cried  Magloire,  coming  forward  immediately  with  his 
nlen,  and  raising  his  voice  to  make  himself  heard.  "Where  to?" 

Robespierre  and  his  Hard -hitters  were  passing  the  house.  The 
smoke  of  the  torch-light  was  rolling  in  at  the  window ;  the  tramp- 
ing footsteps  struck  heavier  and  heavier  on  the  ground ;  the  low 
sullen  roar  of  the  Marseillaise  was  swelling  to  its  loudest,  as  Lomaque 
referred  for  a  moment  to  his  arrest  order,  and  then  answered, 

"  To  the  prison  of  St.  Lazare  !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  head  jailer  of  St.  Lazare  stood  in  the  outer  hall  of  the  prison, 
two  days  after  the  arrest  at  Trudaine's  lodgings,  smoking  his  morn- 
ing pipe.  Looking  toward  the  court-yard  gate,  he  saw  the  wicket 
opened,  and  a  privileged  man  let  in,  whom  he  soon  recognized  as 
the  chief  agent  of  the  second  section  of  Secret  Police.  "  Why,  friend 
Lomaque,"  cried  the  jailer,  advancing  toward  the  court-yard,  "  what 
brings  you  here  this  morning,  business  or  pleasure  ?" 

"  Pleasure,  this  time,  citizen.  I  have  an  idle  hour  or  two  to  spare 
for  a  walk.  I  find  myself  passing  the  prison,  and  I  can't  resist  call- 
ing in  to  see  how  my  friend  the  head  jailer  is  getting  on."  Lomaque 
spoke  in  a  surprisingly  brisk  and  airy  manner.  His  eyes  were  suf- 
fering under  a  violent  fit  of  weakness  and  winking;  but  he  smiled, 
notwithstanding,  with  an  air  of  the  most  inveterate  cheerfulness. 
Those  old  enemies  of  his,  who  always  distrusted  him  most  when 
his  eyes  were  most  affected,  would  have  certainly  disbelieved  every 
word  of  the  friendly  speech  he  had  just  made,  and  would  have  as- 
sumed it  as  a  matter  of  fact  that  his  visit  to  the  head  jailer  had 
some  specially  underhand  business  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

''  How  am  I  getting  on  ?"  said  the  jailer,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Overworked,  friend — overworked.  No  idle  hours  in  our  depart- 
ment. Even  the  guillotine  is  getting  too  slow  for  us  !" 

"  Sent  off  your  batch  of  prisoners  for  trial  this  morning  ?"  asked 
Lomaque,  with  an  appearance  of  perfect  unconcern. 

"  No ;  they're  just  going,"  answered  the  other.  "  Come  and  have 
a  look  at  them."  He  spoke  as  if  the  prisoners  were  a  collection  of 
pictures  on  view,  or  a  set  of  dresses  just  made  up.  Lomaque  nodded 
his  head,  still  with  his  air  of  happy,  holiday  carelessness.  The  jail- 
er led  the  way  to  an  inner  hall ;  and,  pointing  lazily  with  his  pipe- 
stem,  said,  "  Our  morning  batch,  citizen,  just  ready  for  the  baking." 


BISTER  ROSE.  103 

In  one  corner  of  the  hall  were  huddled  together  more  than  thirty 
men  and  women  of  all  ranks  and  ages ;  some  staring  round  them 
with  looks  of  blank  despair;  some  laughing  and  gossiping  reckless- 
ly. Near  them  lounged  a  guard  of  "  Patriots,"  smoking,  spitting, 
and  swearing.  Between  the  patriots  and  the  prisoners  sat,  on  a 
rickety  stool,  the  second  jailer  —  a  humpbacked  man,  with  an  im- 
mense red  mustache — finishing  his  breakfast  of  broad  beans,  which 
he  scooped  out  of  a  basin  with  his  knife,  and  washed  down  with 
copious  draughts  of  wine  from  a  bottle.  Carelessly  as  Lomaque 
looked  at  the  shocking  scene  before  him,  his  quick  eyes  contrived 
to  take  note  of  every  prisoner's  face,  and  to  descry  in  a  few  min- 
utes Trudaine  and  his  sister  standing  together  at  the  back  of  the 
group. 

"  Now  then,  Apollo !"  cried  the  head  jailer,  addressing  his  sub- 
ordinate by  a  facetious  prison  nickname,  "  don't  be  all  day  starting 
that  trumpery  batch  of  yours.  And  harkye,  friend,  I  have  leave  of 
absence,  on  business,  at  my  Section  this  afternoon.  So  it  will  be 
your  duty  to  read  the  list  for  the  guillotine,  and  chalk  the  prison- 
ers1 doors  before  the  cart  comes  to-morrow  morning.  'Ware  the 
bottle,  Apollo,  to-day;  'ware  the  bottle,  for  fear  of  accidents  with 
the  death-list  to-morrow." 

"  Thirsty  July  weather,  this — eh,  citizen  ?"  said  Lomaque,  leaving 
the  head  jailer,  and  patting  the  hunchback  in  the  friendliest  man- 
ner on  the  shoulder.  "  Why,  how  you  have  got  your  batch  huddled 
up  together  this  morning!  Shall  I  help  you  to  shove  them  into 
marching  order  ?  My  time  is  quite  at  your  disposal.  This  is  a  holi- 
day morning  with  me!" 

''  Ha,  ha,  ha  5  what  a  jolly  dog  he  is  on  his  holiday  morning !" 
exclaimed  the  head  jailer,  as  Lomaque — apparently  taking  leave  of 
his  natural  character  altogether  in  the  exhilaration  of  an  hour's  un- 
expected leisure — began  pushing  and  pulling  the  prisoners  into  rank, 
with  humorous  mock  apologies,  at  which  not  the  officials  only,  but 
many  of^the  victims  themselves — reckless  victims  of  a  reckless  tyr- 
anny— laughed  heartily.  Persevering  to  the  last  in  his  practical  jest, 
Lomaque  contrived  to  get  close  to  Trudaine  for  a  minute,  and  to 
give  him  one  significant  look  before  he  seized  him  by  the  shoulders, 
like  the  rest.  "Now,  then,  rear -guard,"  cried  Lomaque,  pushing 
Trudaine  on,  "  close  the  line  of  march,  and  mind  you  keep  step 
with  your  young  woman  there.  Pluck  up  your  spirits,  citoyenne ! 
one  gets  used  to  every  thing  in  this  world,  even  to  the  guillotine !" 

While  he  was  speaking  and  pushing  at  the  same  time,  Trudaine 
felt  a  piece  of  paper  slip  quickly  lift  ween  his  neck  and  his  cravat. 
"  Courage '."  he  whispered,  pressing  his  sister's  hand,  as  he  saw  her 
shuddering  under  the  assumed  brutality  of  Lomaque's  joke. 

Surrounded  by  the  guard  of  "  Patriots,"  the  procession  of  prison- 


104  AFTER   DARK. 

ers  moved  slowly  into  the  outer  court-yard,  on  its  way  to  the  revo- 
lutionary tribunal,  the  humpbacked  jailer  bringing  up  the  rear. 
Lomaque  was  about  to  follow  at  some  little  distance,  but  the  head 
jailer  hospitably  expostulated.  "  What  a  hurry  you're  in  !"  said  he. 
"  Now  that  incorrigible  drinker,  my  second  in  command,  has  gone 
off  with  his  batch,  I  don't  mind  asking  you  to  step  in  and  have  a 
drop  of  wine." 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Lomaque;  "but  I  have  rather  a  fancy 
for  hearing  the  trial  this  morning.  Suppose  I  come  back  after- 
ward ?  What  time  do  you  go  to  your  Section  ?  At  two  o'clock, 
eh  ?  Good  !  I  shall  try  if  I  can't  get  here  soon  after  one."  With 
these  words  he  nodded  and  went  out.  The  brilliant  sunlight  in  the 
court-yard  made  him  wink  faster  than  ever.  Had  any  of  his  old 
enemies  been  with  him,  they  would  have  whispered  within  them- 
selves, "  If  you  mean  to  come  back  at  all,  Citizen  Lomaque,  it  will 
not  be  soon  after  one  !" 

On  his  way  through  the  streets,  the  chief  agent  met  one  or  two 
police  office  friends,  who  delayed  his  progress ;  so  that  when  he  ar- 
rived at  the  revolutionary  tribunal  the  trials  of  the  day  were  just 
about  to  begin. 

The  principal  article  of  furniture  in  the  Hall  of  Justice  was  a 
long,  clumsy,  deal  table,  covered  with  green  baize.  At  the  head  of 
this  table  sat  the  president  and  his  court,  with  their  hats  on,  backed 
by  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  patriots  officially  connected  in  va- 
rious ways  with  the  proceedings  that  were  to  take  place.  Below 
the  front  of  the  table,  a  railed-off  space,  with  a  gallery  beyond,  was 
appropriated  to  the  general  public  —  mostly  represented,  as  to  the 
gallery,  on  this  occasion,  by  women,  all  sitting  together  on  forms, 
knitting,  shirt-mending,  and  baby-linen-making,  as  coolly  as  if  they 
were  at  home.  Parallel  with  the  side  of  the  table  farthest  from  the 
great  door  of  entrance  was  a  low  platform  railed  off,  on  which  the 
prisoners,  surrounded  by  their  guard,  were  now  assembled  to  await 
their  trial.  The  sun  shone  in  brightly  from  a  high  window,  and  a 
hum  of  ceaseless  talking  pervaded  the  hall  cheerfully  as  Lomaque 
entered  it.  He  was  a  privileged  man  here,  as  at  the  prison ;  and  he 
made  his  way  in  by  a  private  door,  so  as  to  pass  to  the  prisoners' 
platform,  and  to  walk  round  it,  before  he  got  to  a  place  behind  the 
president's  chair.  Trudaine,  standing  with  his  sister  on  the  outer- 
most limits  of  the  group,  nodded  significantly  as  Lomaque  looked 
up  at  him  for  an  instant.  He  had  contrived,  on  his  way  to  the  tri- 
bunal, to  get  an  opportunity  of  reading  the  paper  which  the  chief 
agent  had  slipped  into  his  cravat.  It  contained  these  lines : 

"I  have  just  discovered  who  the  citizen  and  citoyenne  Dubois 
are.  There  is  no  chance  for  you  but  to  confess  every  thing.  By 
that  means  you  may  inculpate  a  certain  citizen  holding  authority, 


SISTER  ROSE.  105 

and  may  make  it  his  interest,  if  he  loves  his  own  life,  to  save  yours 
and  your  sister's." 

Arrived  at  the  back  of  the  president's  chair,  Lomaque  recognized 
his  two  trusty  subordinates,  Magloire  and  Picard,  waiting  among 
the  assembled  patriot  officials,  to  give  their  evidence.  Beyond 
thorn,  leaning  against  the  wall,  addressed  by  no  one,  and  speaking 
to  no  one,  stood  the  superintendent,  Danville.  Doubt  and  suspense 
were  written  in  every  line  of  his  face;  the  fretfulness  of  an  uneasy 
mind  expressed  itself  in  his  slightest  gesture — even  in  his  manner 
of  passing  a  handkerchief  from  time  to  time  over  his  face,  on  which 
tin-  perspiration  was  gathering  thick  and  fast  already. 

"  Silence !"  cried  the  usher  of  the  court  for  the  time  being  —  a 
hoarse-voiced  man  in  top-boots,  with  a  huge  sabre  buckled  to  his 
side,  and  a  bludgeon  in  his  hand.  "  Silence  for  the  citizen  presi- 
dent !"  he  reiterated,  striking  his  bludgeon  on  the  table. 

The  president  rose  and  proclaimed  that  the  sitting  for  the  day 
had  begun ;  then  sat  down  again. 

The  momentary  silence  which  followed  was  interrupted  by  a  sud- 
den confusion  among  the  prisoners  on  the  platform.  Two  of  the 
guards  sprang  in  among  them.  There  was  the  thump  of  a  heavy 
fall — a  scream  of  terror  from  some  of  the  female  prisoners — then  an- 
other dead  silence,  broken  by  one  of  the  guards,  who  walked  across 
the  hall  with  a  bloody  knife  in  his  hand,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
"  Citizen  President,"  he  said,  "  I  have  to  report  that  one  of  the  pris- ' 
oners  has  just  stabbed  himself."  There  was  a  murmuring  exclama- 
tion, "  Is  that  all  ?"  among  the  women  spectators,  as  they  resumed 
their  work.  Suicide  at  the  bar  of  justice  was  no  uncommon  occur- 
rence under  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

"  Name  ?"  asked  the  president,  quietly  taking  up  his  pen  and 
opening  a  book. 

"  Martign<5,"  answered  the  humpbacked  jailer,  coming  forward  to 
the  table. 

"  Description  ?" 

"  Ex-royalist  coach-maker  to  the  tyrant  Capet" 

"Accusation?" 

"  Conspiracy  in  prison." 

The  president  nodded,  and  entered  in  the  book:  "Martigne", 
coach-maker.  Accused  of  conspiring  in  prison.  Anticipated  course 
of  law  by  suicide.  Action  accepted  as  sufficient  confession  of  guilt. 
Goods  confiscated.  1st  Thermidor,  year  two  of  the  Republic." 

"  Silence !"  cried  the  man  with  the  bludgeon,  as  the  president 
dropped  a  little  sand  on  the  entry,  and  signing  to  the  jailer  that  he 
might  remove  the  dead  body,  closed  the  book. 

"Any  special  cases  this  morning?"  resumed  the  president,  look- 
ing round  at  the  group  behind  him. 


106  AFTER  DARK. 

"  There  is  one,"  said  Lomaque,  making  his  way  to  the  back  of  the 
official  chair.  "Will  it  be  convenient  to  you,  citizen,  to  take  the 
case  of  Louis  Trudaine  and  Rose  Danville  first  ?  Two  of  my  men 
are  detained  here  as  witnesses,  and  their  time  is  valuable  to  the  Re- 
public." 

The  president  marked  a  list  of  names  before  him,  and  handed  it 
to  the  crier  or  usher,  placing  the  figures  one  and  two  against  Louis 
Trudaine  and  Rose  Danville. 

While  Lomaque  was  backing  again  to  his  former  place  behind  the 
chair,  Danville  approached  and  whispered  to  him, "  There  is  a  rumor 
that  secret  information  has  reached  you  about  the  citizen  and  cito- 
yenne  Dubois.  Is  it  true  ?  Do  you  know  who  they  are  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lomaque ;  "  but  I  have  superior  orders  to  keep 
the  information  to  myself  just  at  present." 

The  eagerness  with  which  Danville  put  his  question,  and  the  dis- 
appointment he  showed  on  getting  no  satisfactory  answer  to  it,  were 
of  a  nature  to  satisfy  the  observant  chief  agent  that  his  superintend- 
ent was  really  as  ignorant  as  he  appeared  to  be  on  the  subject  of  the 
man  and  woman  Dubois.  That  one  mystery,  at  any  rate,  was  still, 
for  Danville,  a  mystery  unrevealed. 

"  Louis  Trudaine !  Rose  Danville  !"  shouted  the  crier,  with  another 
rap  of  his  bludgeon. 

The  two  came  forward,  at  the  appeal,  to  the  front  railing  of  the 
platform.  The  first  sight  of  her  judges,  the  first  shock  on  confront- 
ing the  pitiless  curiosity  of  the  audience,  seemed  to  overwhelm  Rose. 
Bhe  turned  from  deadly  pale  to  crimson,  then  to  pale  again,  and  hid 
her  face  on  her  brother's  shoulder.  How  fast  she  heard  his  heart 
throbbing !  How  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  felt  that  his  fear 
was  all  for  her ! 

"Now,"  said  the  president,  writing  down  their  names.  "De- 
nounced by  whom  ?" 

Magloire  and  Picard  stepped  forward  to  the  table.  The  first  an- 
swered— "  By  Citizen  Superintendent  Danville." 

The  reply  made  a  great  stir  and  sensation  among  both  prisoners 
and  audience. 

"  Accused  of  what  ?"  pursued  the  president. 

"  The  male  prisoner,  of  conspiracy  against  the  Republic ;  the  fe- 
male prisoner,  of  criminal  knowledge  of  the  same." 

"  Produce  your  proofs  in  answer  to  this  order." 

Picard  and  Magloire  opened  their  minutes  of  evidence,  and  read 
to  the  president  the  same  particulars  which  they  had  formerly  read 
to  Lomaque  in  the  secret  police  office. 

"  Good,"  said  the  president,  when  they  had  done ;  "  we  need  trouble 
ourselves  with  nothing  more  than  the  identifying  of  the  citizen  and 
citoyenne  Dubois,  which,  of  course,  you  are  prepared  for.  Have  you 


SISTER   ROSE.  107 

heard  the  evidence  ?"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  prisoners ;  while 
Picard  and  Magloire  consulted  together  in  whispers,  looking  per- 
plexedly toward  the  chief  agent,  who  stood  silent  behind  them. 
"  Have  you  heard  the  evidence,  prisoners  ?  Do  you  wish  to  say  any 
thing  ?  If  you  do,  remember  that  the  time  of  this  tribunal  is  pre- 
cious, and  that  you  will  not  be  suffered  to  waste  it." 

"  I  demand  permission  to  speak  for  myself  and  for  my  sister,"  an- 
swered Trudaine.  "  My  object  is  to  save  the  time  of  the  tribunal  by 
making  a  confession." 

The  faint  whispering,  audible  among  the  women  spectators  a  mo- 
ment before,  ceased  instantaneously  as  he  pronounced  the  word  con- 
fession. In  the  breathless  silence,  his  low,  quiet  tones  penetrated  to 
the  remotest  corners  of  the  hall ;  while,  suppressing  externally  all 
evidences  of  the  death-agony  of  hope  within  him,  he  continued  his 
address  in  these  words : 

"  I  confess  my  secret  visits  to  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  C16ry.  I 
confess  that  the  persons  whom  I  went  to  see  are  the  persons  pointed 
at  in  the  evidence.  And,  lastly,  I  confess  that  my  object  in  commu- 
nicating with  them  as  I  did  was  to  supply  them  with  the  means  of 
leaving  France.  If  I  had  acted  from  political  motives  to  the  polit- 
ical prejudice  of  the  existing  government,  I  admit  that  I  should  be 
guilty  of  that  conspiracy  against  the  Republic  with  which  I  am 
charged.  But  no  political  purpose  animated,  no  political  necessity 
urged  me,  in  performing  the  action  which  has  brought  me  to  the 
bar  of  this  tribunal.  The  persons  whom  I  aided  in  leaving  France 
were  without  political  influence  or  political  connections.  I  acted 
solely  from  private  motives  of  humanity  toward  them  and  toward 
others — motives  which  a  good  republican  may  feel,  and  yet  not  turn 
traitor  to  the  welfare  of  his  country." 

"Are  you  ready  to  inform  the  court,  next,  who  the  man  and  wom- 
an Dubois  really  are?"  inquired  the  president,  impatiently. 

"  I  am  ready,"  answered  Trudaine.  "  But  first  I  desire  to  say  one 
word  in  reference  to  my  sister,  charged  here  at  the  bar*with  me." 
His  voice  grew  less  steady,  and,  for  the  first  time,  his  color  began  to 
change,  as  Rose  lifted  her  face  from  his  shoulder  and  looked  up  at 
him  eagerly.  "I  implore  the  tribunal  to  consider  my  sister  as  inno- 
cent of  all  active  participation  in  what  is  charged  against  me  as  a 
crime — "  He  went  on.  "  Having  spoken  with  candor  about  my- 
self, I  have  some  claim  to  be  believed  when  I  speak  of  her ;  when  I 
assert  that  she  neither  did  help  me  nor  could  help  me.  If  there  be 
blame,  it  is  mine  only ;  if  punishment,  it  is  I  alone  who  should  suf- 
fer." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  grew  confused.  It  was  easy  to  guard 
himself  from  the  peril  of  looking  at  Rose,  but  he  could  not  escape 
the  hard  trial  to  his  self-possession  of  hearing  her,  if  she  spoke: 


108  AFTER  DARK. 

Just  as  he  pronounced  the  last  sentence,  she  raised  her  face  again 
from  his  shoulder,  and  eagerly  whispered  to  him, 

"  No,  no,  Louis  !  Not  that  sacrifice,  after  all  the  others — not  that, 
though  you  should  force  me  into  speaking  to  them  myself!" 

She  abruptly  quitted  her  hold  of  him,  and  fronted  the  whole 
court  in  an  instant.  The  railing  in  front  of  her  shook  with  the 
quivering  of  her  arms  and  hands  as  she  held  by  it  to  support  her- 
self! Her  hair  lay  tangled  on  her  shoulders;  her  face  had  assumed 
a  strange  fixedness ;  her  gentle  blue  eyes,  so  soft  and  tender  at  all 
other  times,  were  lit  up  wildly.  A  low  hum  of  murmured  curiosity 
and  admiration  broke  from  the  women  of  the  audience.  Some  rose 
eagerly  from  the  benches ;  others  cried, 

"  Listen,  listen  !  she  is  going  to  speak  !" 

She  did  speak.  Silvery  and  pure  the  sweet  voice,  sweeter  than 
ever  in  sadness,  stole  its  way  through  the  gross  sounds  —  through 
the  coarse  humming  and  the  hissing  whispers. 

"  My  lord  the  president,"  began  the  poor  girl,  firmly.  Her  next 
words  were  drowned  in  a  volley  of  hisses  from  the  women. 

"Ah  !  aristocrat,  aristocrat!  None  of  your  accursed  titles  here  !" 
was  their  shrill  cry  at  her.  She  fronted  that  cry,  she  fronted  the 
fierce  gestures  which  accompanied  it,  with  the  steady  light  still  in 
her  eyes,  with  the  strange  rigidity  still  fastened  on  her  face.  She 
would  have  spoken  again  through  the  uproar  and  execration,  but 
her  brother's  voice  overpowered  her. 

"  Citizen  president,"  he  cried,  "  I  have  not  concluded.  I  demand 
leave  to  complete  my  confession.  I  implore  the  tribunal  to  attach 
no  importance  to  what  my  sister  says.  The  trouble  and  terror  of 
this  day  have  shaken  her  intellects.  She  is  not  responsible  for  her 
words — I  assert  it  solemnly,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  court !" 

The  blood  flew  up  into  his  white  face  as  he  made  the  asseveration. 
Even  at  that  supreme  moment  the  great  heart  of  the  man  reproached 
him  for  yielding  himself  to  a  deception,  though  the  motive  of  it 
was  to  saA*  his  sister's  life. 

"  Let  her  speak !  let  her  speak  !"  exclaimed  the  women,  as  Rose, 
without  moving,  without  looking  at  her  brother,  without  seeming 
even  to  have  heard  what  he  said,  made  a  second  attempt  to  address 
her  judges,  in  spite  of  Trudaine's  interposition. 

"  Silence  !"  snouted  the  man  with  the  bludgeon.  "  Silence,  you 
women !  the  citizen  president  is  going  to  speak." 

"  The  prisoner  Trudaine  has  the  ear  of  the  court,"  said  the  presi- 
dent, "  and  may  continue  his  confession.  If  the  female  prisoner 
wishes  to  speak,  she  may  be  heard  afterward.  I  enjoin  both  the  ac- 
cused persons  to  make  short  work  of  it  with  their  addresses  to  me, 
or  they  will  make  their  case  worse  instead  of  better.  I  command 
silence  among  the  audience,  and  if  I  am  not  obeyed,  I  will  clear  the 


SISTER  ROSE.  109 

hall.  Now,  prisoner  Trudaine,  I  invite  you  to  proceed.  No  more 
altout  your  sister;  let  her  speak  for  herself.  Your  business  and  ours 
is  with  the  man  and  woman  Dubois  now.  Are  you,  or  are  you  not, 
ready  to  tell  the  court  who  they  are?" 

"  I  repeat  that  I  am  ready,"  answered  Trudaine.  "  The  citizen 
Dubois  is  a  servant.  The  woman  Dubois  is  the  mother  of  the  man 
who  denounces  me — Superintendent  Danville." 

A  low,  murmuring,  rushing  sound  of  hundreds  of  exclaiming 
voices,  all  speaking,  half  suppressedly,  at  the  same  moment,  followed 
the  delivery  of  the  answer.  No  officer  of  the  court  attempted  to 
control  the  outburst  of  astonishment.  The  infection  of  it  spread  to 
the  persons  on  the  platform,  to  the  crier  himself,  to  the  judges  of  the 
tribunal,  lounging,  but  the  moment  before,  so  carelessly  silent  in 
their  chairs.  When  the  noise  was  at  length  quelled,  it  was  subdued 
in  the  most  instantaneous  manner  by  one  man,  who  shouted  from 
the  throng  behind  the  president's  chair, 

"  Clear  the  way  there  !     Superintendent  Danville  is  taken  ill !" 

A  vehement  whispering  and  contending  of  many  voices  interrupt- 
ing each  other,  followed ;  then  a  swaying  among  the  assembly  of 
ntlirial  people;  then  a  great  stillness;  then  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Danville,  alone,  at  the  table. 

The  look  of  him,  as  he  turned  his  ghastly  face  toward  the  au- 
dience, silenced  and  steadied  them  in  an  instant,  just  as  they  were 
on  the  point  of  falling  into  fresh  confusion.  Every  one  stretched 
forward  eagerly  to  hear  what  he  would  say.  His  lips  moved ;  but 
the  few  words  that  fell  from  them  were  inaudible,  except  to  the 
persons  who  happened  to  be  close  by  him.  Having  spoken,  he  left 
the  table  supported  by  a  police  agent,  who  was  seen  to  lead  him  to- 
ward the  private  door  of  the  court,  and,  consequently,  also  toward 
the  prisoner's  platform.  He  stopped,  however,  half-way,  quickly 
turned  his  face  from  the  prisoners,  and  pointing  toward  the  public 
door  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall,  caused  himself  to  be  led  out 
into  the  air  by  that  direction.  When  he  had  gone,  the  president, 
addressing  himself  partly  to  Trudaine  and  partly  to  the  audience, 
said, 

"  The  Citizen  Superintendent  Danville  has  been  overcome  by  the 
heat  in  the  court.  He  has  retired  (by  my  desire,  under  the  care  of 
a  police  agent)  to  recover  in  the  open  air ;  pledging  himself  to  me 
to  come  back  and  throw  a  new  light  on  the  extraordinary  and  sus- 
picious statement  which  the  prisoner  has  just  made.  Until  the  re- 
turn of  Citizen  Danville.  I  order  the  accused,  Trudaine,  to  suspend 
any  further  acknowledgment  of  complicity  which  he  may  have  to 
address  to  me.  rihis  matter  must  be  cleared  up  before  other  mat- 
ters are  entered  on.  Meanwhile,  in  order  that  the  time  of  the  tri- 
bunal may  not  be  wasted,  I  authorize  the  female  prisoner  to  take 


110  AFTER  DARK. 

this  opportunity  of  making  any  statement  concerning  herself  which 
she  may  wish  to  address  to  the  judges." 

"  Silence  him  !"  "  Remove  him  out  of  court !"  "  Gag  him  !" 
"  Guillotine  him  !"  These  cries  rose  from  the  audience  the  moment 
the  president  had  done  speaking.  They  were  all  directed  at  Tru- 
daine,  who  had  made  a  last  desperate  effort  to  persuade  his  sister  to 
keep  silence,  and  had  been  detected  in  the  attempt  by  the  spectators. 

"  If  the  prisoner  speaks  another  word  to  his  sister,  remove  him," 
said  the  president,  addressing  the  guard  round  the  platform. 

"  Good  !  we  shall  hear  her  at  last.  Silence !  silence !"  exclaimed 
the  women,  settling  themselves  comfortably  on  their  benches,  and 
preparing  to  resume  their  work. 

"  Rose  Danville,  the  court  is  waiting  to  hear  you,"  said  the  presi- 
dent, crossing  his  legs  and  leaning  back  luxuriously  in  his  large 
arm-chair. 

Amidst  all  the  noise  and  confusion  of  the  last  few  minutes,  Rose 
had  stood  ever  in  the  same  attitude,  with  that  strangely  fixed  ex- 
pression never  altering  on  her  face  but  once.  When  her  husband 
made  his  way  to  the  side  of  the  table,  and  stood  there  prominently 
alone,  her  lips  trembled  a  little,  and  a  faint  shade  of  color  passed 
swiftly  over  her  cheeks.  Even  that  slight  change  had  vanished 
now  —  she  was  paler,  stiller,  more  widely  altered  from  her  former 
self  than  ever,  as  she  faced  the  president  and  said  these  words : 

"  I  wish  to  follow  my  brother's  example,  and  make  my  confession, 
as  he  has  made  his.  I  would  rather  he  had  spoken  for. me;  but  he 
is  too  generous  to  say  any  words  except  such  as  he  thinks  may  save 
me  from  sharing  his  punishment.  I  refuse  to  be  saved,  unless  he  is 
saved  with  me.  Where  he  goes  when  he  leaves  this  place,  I  will 
go;  what  he  suffers,  I  will  suffer;  if  he  is  to  die,  I  believe  God  will 
grant  me  the  strength  to  die  resignedly  with  him !" 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  half  turned  toward  Trudaine — then 
checked  herself  instantly,  and  went  on:  ''This  is  what  I  now  wish 
to  say,  as  to  my  share  in  the  offense  charged  against  my  brother. 
Some  time  ago,  he  told  me  one  day  that  he  had  seen  my  husband's 
mother  in  Paris,  disguised  as  a  poor  woman ;  that  he  had  spoken  to 
her,  and  forced  her  to  acknowledge  herself.  Up  to  this  time  we 
had  all  felt  certain  that  she  had  left  France,  because  she  held  old- 
fashioned  opinions  which  it  is  dangerous  for  people  to  hold  now — 
had  left  France  before  we  came  to  Paris.  She  told  my  brother  that 
she  had  indeed  gone  (with  an  old  tried  servant  of  the  family  to  help 
and  protect  her)  as  far  as  Marseilles ;  and  that,  finding  unforeseen 
difficulty  there  in  getting  farther,  she  had  taken  it  as  a  warning  from 
Providence  not  to  desert  her  son,  of  whom  she  was  very  passionately 
fond,  and  from  whom  she  had  been  most  unwilling  to  depart.  In- 
Btead  of  waiting  in  exile  for  quieter  times,  she  determined  to  go  and 


BISTER  KOBE.  Ill 

hide  herself  in  Paris,  knowing  her  son  was  going  there  too.  She  as- 
sumed the  name  of  her  old  and  faithful  servant,  who  declined  to  the 
last  to  leave  her  unprotected ;  and  she  proposed  to  live  in  the  strict- 
est secrecy  and  retirement,  watching,  unknown,  the  career  of  her 
son,  and  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  disclose  herself  to  him,  when 
the  settlement  of  public  affairs  might  reunite  her  safely  to  her  be- 
loved child.  My  brother  thought  this  plan  full  of  danger,  both  for 
herself,  for  her  son,  and  for  the  honest  old  man  who  was  risking  his 
head  for  his  mistress's  sake.  I  thought  so  too ;  and  in  an  evil  hour 
I  said  to  Louis, 4  Will  you  try  in  secret  to  get  my  husband's  mother 
away,  and  see  that  her  faithful  servant  makes  her  really  leave  France 
this  time  ?'  I  wrongly  asked  my  brother  to  do  this  for  a  selfish  rea- 
son of  my  own — a  reason  connected  with  my  married  life,  which  has 
not  been  a  happy  one.  I  had  not  succeeded  in  gaining  my  hus- 
band's affection,  and  was  not  treated  kindly  by  him.  My  brother — 
who  has  always  loved  me  far  more  dearly,  I  am  afraid,  than  I  have 
ever  deserved — my  brother  increased  his  kindness  to  me,  seeing  me 
treated  unkindly  by  my  husband.  This  made  ill -blood  between 
them.  My  thought,  when  I  asked  my  brother  to  do  for  me  what  I 
have  said,  was,  that  if  we  two  in  secret  saved  my  husband's  mother, 
without  danger  to  him,  from  imperiling  herself  and  her  son,  we 
should,  when  the  time  came  for  speaking  of  what  we  had  done,  ap- 
pear to  my  husband  in  a  new  and  better  light.  I  should  have  shown 
how  well  I  deserved  his  love,  and  Louis  would  have  shown  how 
well  he  deserved  his  brother-in-law's  gratitude;  and  so  we  should 
have  made  home  happy  at  last,  and  all  three  have  lived  together  af- 
fectionately. This  was  my  thought;  and  when  I  told  it  to  my 
brother,  and  asked  him  if  there  would  be  much  risk,  out  of  his  kind- 
ness and  indulgence  toward  me,  he  said  '  No.'  He  had  so  used  me 
to  accept  sacrifices  for  my  happiness,  that  I  let  him  endanger  him- 
self to  help  me  in  my  little  household  plan.  I  repent  this  bitterly 
now ;  I  ask  his  pardon  with  my  whole  heart.  If  he  is  acquitted,  I 
will  try  to  show  myself  worthier  of  his  love.  If  he  is  found  guilty, 
I,  too,  will  go  to  the  scaffold,  and  die  with  my  brother,  who  risked 
his  life  for  my  sake." 

She  ceased  as  quietly  as  she  had  begun,  and  turned  once  more  to 
her  brother. 

As  she  looked  away  from  the  court  and  looked  at  him,  a  few  tears 
came  into  her  eyes,  and  something  of  the  old  softness  of  form  and 
gentleness  of  expression  seemed  to  return  to  her  face.  He  let  her 
take  his  hand,  but  he  seemed  purposely  to  avoid  meeting  the  anx- 
ious gaze  she  fixed  on  him.  His  head  sunk  on  his  breast ;  he  drew 
his  breath  heavily,  his  countenance  darkened  and  grew  distorted,  as 
if  he  were  suffering  some  sharp  pang  of  physical  pain.  He  bent 
down  a  little,  and,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  rail  before  him,  covered 


112  AFTER   DARK. 

his  face  with  his  hand  ;  and  so  quelled  the  rising  agony,  so  forced 
back  the  scalding  teal's  to  his  heart.  The  audience  had  heard  Rose 
in  silence,  and  they  preserved  the  same  tranquillity  when  she  had 
done.  This  was  a  rare  tribute  to  a  prisoner  from  the  people  of  the 
Reign  of  Terror. 

The  president  looked  round  at  his  colleagues,  and  shook  his  head 
suspiciously. 

"This  statement  of  the  female  prisoner's  complicates  the  matter 
very  seriously,"  said  he.  "  Is  there  any  body  in  court,"  he  added, 
looking  at  the  persons  behind  his  chair,  "  who  knows  where  the 
mother  of  Superintendent  Danville  and  the  servant  are  now  ?" 

Lomaque  came  forward  at  the  appeal,  and  placed  himself  by  the 
table. 

"  Why,  citizen  agent !"  continued  the  president,  looking  hard  at 
him,  "  are  you  overcome  by  the  heat  too  ?" 

"  The  fit  seemed  to  take  him,  citizen  president,  when  the  female 
prisoner  had  made  an  end  of  her  statement,"  exclaimed  Magloire, 
pressing  forward  officiously. 

Lomaque  gave  his  subordinate  a  look  which  sent  the  man  back 
directly  to  the  shelter  of  the  official  group ;  then  said,  in  lower  tones 
than  were  customary  with  him, 

"  I  have  received  information  relative  to  the  mother  of  Superin- 
tendent Danville  and  the  servant,  and  ana  ready  to  answer  any  ques- 
tions that  may  be  put  to  me." 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?"  asked  the  president. 

"  She  and  the  servant  are  known  to  have  crossed  the  frontier,  and 
are  supposed  to  be  on  their  way  to  Cologne.  But,  since  they  have 
entered  Germany,  their  whereabouts  is  necessarily  a  matter  of  un- 
certainty to  the  republican  authorities." 

"  Have  you  any  information  relative  to  the  conduct  of  the  old 
servant  while  he  was  in  Paris  ?" 

"  I  have  information  enough  to  prove  that  he  was  not  an  object 
for  political  suspicion.  He  seems  to  have  been  simply  anjmated  by 
servile  zeal  for  the  woman's  interests  ;  to  have  performed  for  her  all 
the  menial  offices  of  a  servant  in  private ;  and  to  have  misled  the 
neighbors  by  affected  equality  with  her  in  public." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  believe  that  Superintendent  Danville 
was  privy  to  his  mother's  first  attempt  at  escaping  from  France  ?" 

"  I  infer  it  from  what  the  female  prisoner  has  said,  and  for  other 
reasons  which  it  would  be  irregular  to  detail  before  the  tribunal. 
The  proofs  can  no  doubt  be  obtained,  if  I  am  allowed  time  to  com- 
municate with  the  authorities  at  Lyons  and  Marseilles." 

At  this  moment  Danville  re-entered  the  court ;  and,  advancing  to 
the  table,  placed  himself  close  by  the  chief  agent's  side.  They  look- 
ed each  other  steadily  in  the  face  for  an  instant. 


BISTER  RO8K.  113 

"He  has  recovered  from  the  shock  of  Trudaine's  answer,"  thought 
Loinaqiu',  retiring.  "His  hand  trembles,  his  face  is  pale,  but  I  can 
see  regained  self-possession  in  his  eye,  and  I  dread  the  consequences 
already." 

"  Citizen  president,"  began  Danville,  "I  demand  to  know  if  any 
thing  has  transpired  affecting  my  honor  and  patriotism  in  my  ab- 
sence ?" 

He  spoke  apparently  with  the  most  perfect  calmness,  but  he  look- 
ed nobody  in  the  face.  His  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  on  the  green 
baize  of  the  table  beneath  him. 

"  The  female  prisoner  has  made  a  statement,  referring  principally 
to  herself  and  her  brother,"  answered  the  president,  "  but  incident- 
ally mentioning  a  previous  attempt  on  your  mother's  part  to  break 
existing  laws  by  emigrating  from  France.  This  portion  of  the  con- 
fession contains  in  it  some  elements  of  suspicion  which  seriously  af- 
fect you — " 

"They  shall  be  suspicions  no  longer  —  at  my  own  peril  I  will 
change  them  to  certainties !"  exclaimed  Danville,  extending  his  arm 
theatrically,  and  looking  up  for  the  first  time.  "  Citizen  president, 
I  avow  it  with  the  fearless  frankness  of  a  good  patriot;  I  was  privy 
to  my  mother's  first  attempt  at  escaping  from  France." 

Hisses  and  cries  of  execration  followed  this  confession.  He 
winced  under  them  at  first ;  but  recovered  his  self-possession  before 
silence  was  restored. 

"  Citizens,  you  have  heard  the  confession  of  my  fault,"  he  re- 
sumed, turning  with  desperate  assurance  toward  the  audience; 
"  now  hear  the  atonement  I  have  made  for  it  at  the  altar  of  my 
country." 

He  waited  at  the  end  of  that  sentence,  until  the  secretary  to  the 
tribunal  had  done  writing  it  down  in  the  report  book  of  the  court 

"  Transcribe  faithfully  to  the  letter !"  cried  Danville,  pointing  sol- 
emnly to  the  open  page  of  the  volume.  "  Life  and  death  hang  on 
my  words." 

The  secretary  took  a  fresh  dip  of  ink,  and  nodded  to  show  that 
he  was  ready.  Danville  went  on : 

"In  these  times  of  glory  and  trial  for  France,"  he  proceeded, 
pitching  his  voice  to  a  tone  of  deep  emotion,  "what  are  all  good 
citizens  most  sacredly  bound  to  do  ?  To  immolate  their  dearest 
private  affections  and  interests  before  their  public  duties !  On  the 
first  attempt  of  my  mother  to  violate  the  laws  against  emigration, 
by  escaping  from  France,  I  failed  in  making  the  heroic  sacrifice 
which  inexorable  patriotism  demanded  of  me.  My  situation  was 
more  terrible  than  the  situation  of  Brutus  sitting  in  judgment  on 
his  own  sons.  I  had  not  the  Roman  fortitude  to  rise  equal  to  it.  I 
erred,  citizens  —  erred  as  Coriolanus  did,  when  his  august  mother 

5 


114  AfcTER  DARK. 

pleaded  with  him  for  the  safety  of  Rome  !  For  that  error  I  deserved 
to  be  purged  out  of  the  republican  community ;  but  I  escaped  my 
merited  punishment — nay,  I  even  rose  to  the  honor  of  holding  an 
office  under  the  Government.  Time  passed  ;  and  again  my  mother 
attempted  an  escape  from  France.  Again,  inevitable  fate  brought 
my  civic  virtue  to  the  test.  How  did  I  meet  this  second  supremest 
trial  ?  By  an  atonement  for  past  weakness,  terrible  as  the  trial  it- 
self. Citizens,  you  will  shudder;  but  you  will  applaud  while  you 
tremble.  Citizens,  look !  and  while  you  look,  remember  well  the 
evidence  given  at  the  opening  of  this  case.  Yonder  stands  the  en- 
emy of  his  country,  who  intrigued  to  help  my  mother  to  escape ; 
here  stands  the  patriot  son,  whose  voice  was  the  first,  the  only 
voice,  to  denounce  him  for  the  crime !"  As  he  spoke,  he  pointed 
to  Trudaine,  then  struck  himself  on  the  breast,  then  folded  his  arms, 
and  looked  sternly  at  the  benches  occupied  by  the  spectators. 

"  Do  you  assert,"  exclaimed  the  president,  "  that  at  the  time  when 
you  denounced  Trudaine,  you  knew  him  to  be  intriguing  to  aid  your 
mother's  escape  ?" 

"  I  assert  it,"  answered  Danville. 

The  pen  which  the  president  held  dropped  from  his  hand  at 
that  reply ;  his  colleagues  started,  and  looked  at  each  other  in  blank 
silence. 

A  murmur  of  "Monster !  monster!"  began  with  the  prisoners  on 
the  platform,  and  spread  instantly  to  the  audience,  who  echoed  and 
echoed  it  again ;  the  fiercest  woman-republican  on  the  benches  join- 
ed cause  at  last  with  the  haughtiest  woman-aristocrat  on  the  plat- 
form. Even  in  that  sphere  of  direst  discords,  in  that  age  of  sharp- 
est enmities,  the  one  touch  of  nature  preserved  its  old  eternal  virtue, 
and  roused  the  mother-instinct  which  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

Of  the  few  persons  in  the  court  who  at  once  foresaw  the  effect  of 
Danville's  answer  on  the  proceedings  of  the  tribunal,  Lomaque  was 
one.  His  sallow  face  whitened  as  he  looked  toward  the  prisoners' 
platform. 

"  They  are  lost,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  moving  out  of  the  group 
in  which  he  had  hitherto  stood.  "  Lost !  The  lie  which  has  saved 
that  villain's  head  leaves  them  without  the  shadow  of  a  hope.  No 
need  to  stop  for  the  sentence — Danville's  infamous  presence  of  mind 
has  given  them  up  to  the  guillotine !"  Pronouncing  these  words, 
he  went  out  hurriedly  by  a  door  near  the  platform,  which  led  to  the 
prisoners'  waiting-room. 

Rose's  head  sank  again  on  her  brother's  shoulder.  She  shudder- 
ed, and  leaned  back  faintly  on  the  arm  which  he  extended  to  sup- 
port her.  One  of  the  female  prisoners  tried  to  help  Trudaine  in 
speaking  consolingly  to  her ;  but  the  consummation  of  her  hus- 
band's perfidy  seemed  to  have  paralyzed  her  at  heart.  She  mur- 


SISTER  ROSE.  115 

mured  once  in  her  brother's  ear,  "  Louis !  I  am  resigned  to  die — 
nothing  but  death  is  left  for  me  after  the  degradation  of  having 
loved  that  man."  She  said  those  words  and  closed  her  eyes  weari- 
ly, and  spoke  no  more. 

"  One  other  question,  and  you  may  retire,"  resumed  the  president, 
addressing  Danville.  "Were  you  cognizant  of  your  wife's  connec- 
tion with  her  brother's  conspiracy?" 

Danville  reflected  for  a  moment,  remembered  that  there  were  wit- 
nesses in  court  who  could  speak  to  his  language  and  behavior  on 
the  evening  of  his  wife's  arrest,  and  resolved  this  time  to  tell  the 
truth. 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it,"  he  answered.  "  Testimony  in  my  favor 
can  be  called  which  will  prove  that  when  my  wife's  complicity  was 
discovered  I  was  absent  from  Paris." 

Heartlessly  self-possessed  as  he  was,  the  public  reception  of  his 
last  reply  had  shaken  his  nerve.  He  now  spoke  in  low  tones,  turn- 
ing his  back  on  the  spectators,  and  fixing  his  eyes  again  on  the  green 
baize  of  the  table  at  which  he  stood. 

••  Prisoners,  have  you  any  objection  to  make,  any  evidence  to  call, 
invalidating  the  statement  by  which  Citizen  Danville  has  cleared 
himself  of  suspicion  ?"  inquired  the  president. 

"  He  has  cleared  himself  by  the  most  execrable  of  all  falsehoods," 
answered  Trudaine.  "  If  his  mother  could  be  traced  and  brought 
here,  her  testimony  would  prove  it." 

"Can  you  produce  any  other  evidence  in  support  of  your  allega- 
tion ?"  asked  the  president. 

"  I  can  not." 

"Citizen  Superintendent  Danville,  you  are  at  liberty  to  retire. 
Your  statement  will  be  laid  before  the  authority  to  whom  you  are 
officially  responsible.  Either  you  merit  a  civic  crown  for  more  than 
Roman  virtue,  or — '  Having  got  thus  far,  the  president  stopped 
abruptly,  as  if  unwilling  to  commit  himself  too  soon  to  an  opinion, 
and  merely  repeated,  "  You  may  retire." 

Danville  left  the  court  immediately,  going  out  again  by  the  pub- 
lic door.  He  was  followed  by  murmurs  from  the  women's  benches, 
which  soon  ceased,  however,  when  the  president  was  observed  to 
close  his  note-book,  and  turn  round  toward  his  colleagues.  "The 
sentence  !"  was  the  general  whisper  %ow.  "Hush, hush  —  the  sen- 
tence !" 

After  a  consultation  of  a  few  minutes  with  the  persons  behind 
him,  the  president  rose,  and  spoke  the  momentous  words: 

••  Louis  Trudaine  and  Rose  Danville,  the  revolutionary  tribunal, 
having  heard  the  charge  against  you,  and  having  weighed  the  value 
of  what  you  have  said  in  answer  to  it,  decides  that  you  are  both 
guilty,  and  condemns  you  to  the  penalty  of  death." 


AFTER  DARK. 


Having  delivered  the  sentence  in  those  terms,  he  sat  down  again, 
and  placed  a  mark  against  the  two  first  condemned  names  on  the 
list  of  prisoners.  Immediately  afterward  the  next  case  was  called 
on,  and  the  curiosity  of  the  audience  was  stimulated  by  a  new  trial. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  waiting-room  of  the  revolutionary  tribunal  was  a  grim,  bare 
place,  with  a  dirty  stone  floor,  and  benches  running  round  the  walls. 
The  windows  were  high  and  barred ;  and  at  the  outer  door,  leading 
into  the  street,  two  sentinels  kept  watch.  On  entering  this  comfort- 
less retreat  from  the  court,  Lomaque  found  it  perfectly  empty.  Sol- 
itude was  just  then  welcome  to  him.  He  remained  in  the  waiting- 
room,  walking  slowly  from  end  to  end  over  the  filthy  pavement,  talk- 
ing eagerly  and  incessantly  to  himself. 

After  a  while,  the  door  communicating  with  the  tribunal  opened, 
and  the  humpbacked  jailer  made  his  appearance,  leading  in  Tru- 
daine  and  Rose. 

"  You  will  have  to  wait  here,"  said  the  little  man,  "  till  the  rest  of 
them  have  been  tried  and  sentenced ;  and  then  you  will  all  go  back 
to  prison  in  a  lump.  Ha,  citizen,"  he  continued,  observing  Lomaque 
at  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  and  bustling  up  to  him.  "  Here  still, 
eh  ?  If  you  were  going  to  stop  much  longer,  I  should  ask  a  favor 
of  you." 

"I  am  in  no  hurry,"  said  Lomaque,  with  a  glance  at  the  two  pris- 
oners. 

"  Good!"  cried  the  humpback,  drawing  his  hand  across  his  mouth; 
"  I  am  parched  with  thirst,  and  dying  to  moisten  my  throat  at  the 
wine-shop  over  the  way.  Just  mind  that  man  and  woman  while 
I'm  gone,  will  you  ?  It's  the  merest  form— there's  a  guard  outside, 
the  windows  are  barred,  the  tribunal  is  within  hail.  Do  you  niiiid 
obliging  me  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  glad  of  the  opportunity." 

"  That's  a  good  fellow  —  and,  remember,  if  I  am  asked  for,  you 
must  say  I  was  obliged  to  quit  the  court  for  a  few  minutes,  and  left 
you  in  charge."  # 

With  these  words,  the  humpbacked  jailer  ran  off  to  the  wine- 
shop. 

He  had  scarcely  disappeared  before  Trudaine  crossed  the  room, 
and  caught  Lomaque  by  the  arm. 

"  Save  her,"  he  whispered ;  "  there  is  an  opportunity — save  her !" 
His  face  was  flushed — his  eyes  wandered— his  breath  on  the  chief 
agent's  cheek,  while  he  spoke,  felt  scorching  hot.  "  Save  her  1"  he 


SISTER  ROSE.  117 

repeated,  ahakhig  Lomaque  by  the  arm,  and  dragging  him  toward 
the  door.  "Remember  all  you  owe  to  my  father — remember  our 
talk  on  that  bench  by  the  river — remember  what  you  said  to  me 
yourself  on  tin-  night  of  the  arrest — don't  wait  to  think — save  her, 
and  leave  me  without  a  word!  If  I  die  alone, I  can  die  as  a  man 
should;  if  she  goes  to  the  scaffold  by  my  side,  my  heart  will  fail  me 
— I  shall  die  the  death  of  a  coward !  I  have  lived  for  her  life — let 
me  die  for  it,  and  I  die  happy  !" 

He  tried  to  say  more,  but  the  violence  of  his  agitation  forbade  it. 
He  could  only  shake  the  arm  he  held  again  and  again,  and  point  to 
the  bench  on  which  Rose  sat  —  her  hea'd  sunk  on  her  bosom,  her 
hands  crossed  listlessly  on  her  lap. 

"  There  are  two  armed  sentinels  outside — the  windows  are  barred 
—  y>n  are  without  weapons — and  even  if  you  had  them,  there  is  a 
guard-house  within  hail  on  one  side  of  you,  and  the  tribunal  on  the 
other.  Escape  from  this  room  is  impossible,"  answered  Lomaque. 

"Impossible!''  repeated  the  other,  furiously.  "You  traitor!  you 
coward!  can  you  look  at  her  sitting  there  helpless,  her  very  life 
ebbing  away  already  with  every  minute  that  passes,  and  tell  me  cool- 
ly that  escape  is  impossible  ?" 

In  the  frenzy  of  his  grief  and  despair,  he  lifted  his  disengaged 
hand  threateningly  while  he  spoke.  Lomaque  caught  him  by  the 
\\  rNt.  and  drew  him  toward  a  window  open  at  the  top. 

••  You  are  not  in  your  right  senses,"  said  the  chief  agent, firmly; 
"anxiety  and  apprehension  on  your  sister's  account  have  shaken 
your  mind.  Try  to  compose  yourself,  and  listen  to  me.  I  have 
something  important  to  say —  (Trudaine  looked  at  him  incredu- 
lously.) "Important,"  continued  Lomaque,  "as  affecting  your  sis- 
ter's interests  at  this  terrible  crisis." 

That  last  appeal  had  an  instantaneous  effect.  Trudaine's  out- 
stretched hand  dropped  to  his  side,  and  a  sudden  change  passed 
over  his  expression. 

"  Give  me  a  moment,"  he  said,  faintly ;  and  turning  away,  leaned 
against  the  wall,  and  pressed  his  burning  forehead  on  the  chill, 
damp  stone.  He  did  not  raise  his  head  again  till  he  had  mastered 
himself,  and  could  say  quietly,  "Speak;  I  am  fit  to  hear  you,  and 
sufficiently  in  my  senses  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for  what  I  said  just 
now." 

-  \Vhen  I  left  the  tribunal  and  entered  this  room,''  Lomaque  be- 
gan in  a  whisper,  "there  was  no  thought  in  my  mind  that  could  be 
turned  i.o  good  account,  either  for  your  sister  or  for  you.  I  was  fit 
for  nothing  but  to  deplore  the  failure  of  the  confession  which  I 
came  to  St.  Lazare  to  suggest  to  you  as  your  best  plan  of  defense. 
Since  then,  an  idea  has  struck  me,  which  may  be  useful — an  idea  so 
^desperate,  so  uncertain — involving  a  proposal  so  absolutely  depend- 


118  AFTER  DARK. 

ent,  as  to  its  successful  execution,  on  the  merest  chance,  that  I  refuse 
to  confide  it  to  you  except  on  one  condition." 

"  Mention  the  condition  !     I  submit  to  it  beforehand." 

"  Give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will  not  mention  what  I 
am  about  to  say  to  your  sister  until  I  grant  you  permission  to  speak. 
Promise  me  that  when  you  see  her  shrinking  before  the  terrors  of 
death  to-night,  you  will  have  self-restraint  enough  to  abstain  from 
breathing  a  word  of  hope  to  her.  I  ask  this,  because  there  are  ten 
— twenty — fifty  chances  to  one  that  there  is  no  hope." 

"  I  have  no  choice  but  to  promise,"  answered  Trudaine. 

Lomaque  produced  his  pocket-book  and  pencil  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"  I  will  enter  into  particulars  as  soon  as  I  have  asked  a  strange 
question  of  you,"  he  said.  "  You  have  been  a  great  experimenter 
in  chemistry  in  your  time — is  your  mind  calm  enough,  at  such  a  try- 
ing moment  as  this,  to  answer  a  question  which  is  connected  with 
chemistry  in  a  very  humble  way  ?  You  seem  astonished.  Let  me 
put  the  question  at  once.  Is  there  any  liquid,  or  powder,  or  combi- 
nation of  more  than  one  ingredient  known,  which  will  remove  writ- 
ing from  paper,  and  leave  no  stain  behind  ?" 

"  Certainly !  But  is  that  all  the  question  ?  Is  there  no  greater 
difficulty  ?" 

"  None.  Write  the  prescription,  whatever  it  may  be,  on  that 
leaf,"  said  the  other,  giving  him  the  pocket-book.  "  Write  it  down, 
with  plain  directions  for  use."  Trudaine  obeyed.  "  This  is  the 
first  step,"  continued  Lomaque,  putting  the  book  in  his  pocket, 
"  toward  the  accomplishment  of  my  purpose — my  uncertain  purpose, 
remember !  Now  listen ;  I  am  going  to  put  my  own  head  in  dan- 
ger for  the  chance  of  saving  yours  and  your  sister's  by  tampering 
with  the  death-list.  Don't  interrupt  me !  If  I  can  save  one,  I  can 
save  the  other.  Not  a  word  about  gratitude !  Wait  till  you  know 
the  extent  of  your  obligation.  I  tell  you  plainly,  at  the  outset,  there 
is  a  motive  of  despair,  as  well  as  a  motive  of  pity,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  action  in  which  I  am  now  about  to  engage.  Silence  !  I  insist 
on  it.  Our  time  is  short ;  it  is  for  me  to  speak,  and  for  you  to  list- 
en. The  president  of  the  tribunal  has  put  the  death-mark  against 
your  names  on  the  prison  list  of  to-day.  That  list,  when  the  trials 
are  over,  and  it  is  marked  to  the  end,  will  be  called  in  this  room 
before  you  are  taken  to  St.  Lazare.  It  will  then  be  sent  to  Robes- 
pierre, who  will  keep  it,  having  a  copy  made  of  it  the  moment  it  is 
delivered,  for  circulation  among  his  colleagues  —  St.  Just,  and  the 
rest.  It  is  my  business  to  make  a  duplicate  of  this  copy  in  the  first 
instance.  The  duplicate  will  be  compared  with  the  original,  and 
possibly  with  the  copy,  too,  either  by  Robespierre  himself,  or  by( 
some  one  in  whom  he  can  place  implicit  trust,  and  will  then  be  senfl 


SISTER   BO8E.  119 

to  St.  Lazare  without  passing  through  my  hands  again.  It  will  be 
read  in  public  the  moment  it  is  received,  at  the  grating  of  the  pris- 
on, and  will  afterward  be  kept  by  the  jailer,  who  will  refer  to  it,  as 
he  goes  round  in  the  evening  with  a  piece  of  chalk,  to  mark  the 
celjl  doors  of  the  prisoners  destined  for  the  guillotine  to-morrow. 
That  duty  happens,  to-day,  to  fall  to  the  hunchback  whom  you 
saw  speaking  to  me.  He  is  a  confirmed  drinker,  and  I  mean  to 
tempt  him  with  such  wine  as  he  rarely  tastes.  If— after  the  reading 
of  the  list  in  public,  and  before  the  marking  of  the  cell  doors — I  can 
get  him  to  sit  down  to  the  bottle,  I  will  answer  for  making  him 
drunk,  for  getting  the  list  out  of  his  pocket,  and  for  wiping  your 
names  out  of  it  with  the  prescription  you  have  just  written  for  me. 
I  shall  write  all  the  names,  one  under  another,  just  irregularly 
enough  in  my  duplicate  to  prevent  the  interval  left  by  the  erasure 
from  being  easily  observed.  If  I  succeed  in  this,  your  door  will  not 
be  marked,  and  your  names  will  not  be  called  to-morrow  morning 
when  the  tumbrils  come  for  the  guillotine.  In  the  present  con- 
fusion of  prisoners  pouring  in  every  day  for  trial,  and  prisoners 
pouring  out  every  day  for  execution,  you  will  have  the  best  possible 
chance  of  security  against  awkward  inquiries,  if  you  play  your 
cards  properly,  for  a  good  fortnight  or  ten  days  at  least.  In  that 
time — " 

"  Well !  well !"  cried  Trudaine,  eagerly. 

Lomaque  looked  toward  the  tribunal  door,  and  lowered  his  voice 
to  a  fainter  whisper  before  he  continued,  "  In  that  time  Robespierre's 
own  head  may  fall  into  the  sack !  France  is  beginning  to  sicken 
under  the  Reign  of  Terror.  Frenchmen  of  the  Moderate  faction, 
who  have  lain  hidden  for  months  in  cellars  and  lofts,  are  beginning 
to  steal  out  and  deliberate  by  twos  and  threes  together,  under  cover 
of  the  night.  Robespierre  has  not  ventured  for  weeks  past  to  face 
the  Convention  Committee.  He  only  speaks  among  his  own  friends 
at  the  Jacobins.  There  are  rumors  of  a  terrible  discovery  made  by 
Carnot,  of  a  desperate  resolution  taken  by  Tallien.  Men  watching 
l>ehind  the  scenes  sec  that  the  last  days  of  the  Terror  are  at  hand. 
If  Robespierre  is  beaten  in  the  approaching  struggle,  you  are  saved 
— for  the  new  reign  must  be  a  Reign  of  Mercy.  If  he  conquers,  I 
have  only  put  off  the  date  of  your  death  and  your  sister's,  and  have 
laid  my  own  neck  under  the  axe.  Those  are  your  chances — this  is 
all  I  can  do." 

He  paused,  and  Trudaine  again  endeavored  to  speak  such  words 
as  might  show  that  he  was  not  unworthy  of  the  deadly  risk  which 
Lomaque  was  prepared  to  encounter.  But  once  more  the  chief 
agent  peremptorily  and  irritably  interposed: 

••  I  tell  you,  for  the  third  time,"  he  said,  "I  will  listen  to  no  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude  from  you  till  I  know  when  I  deserve  them. 


120  AFTEK  DARK. 

It  is  true  that  I  recollect  your  father's  timely  kindness  to  me — true 
that  I  have  not  forgotten  what  passed,  five  years  since,  at  your 
house  by  the  river-side.  I  remember  every  thing,  down  to  what 
you  would  consider  the  veriest  trifle — that  cup  of  coffee,  for  instance, 
which  your  sister  kept  hot  for  me.  I  told  you  then  that  you  would 
think  better  of  me  some  day.  I  know  that  you  do  now.  But  this 
is  not  all.  You  want  to  glorify  me  to  my  face  for  risking  my  life 
for  you.  I  won't  hear  you,  because  my  risk  is  of  the  paltriest  kind. 
I  am  weary  of  my  life.  I  can't  look  back  to  it  with  pleasure.  I  am 
too  old  to  look  forward  to  what  is  left  of  it  with  hope.  There  was 
something  in  that  night  at  your  house  before  the  wedding — some- 
thing in  what  you  said,  in  what  your  sister  did — which  altered  me. 
I  have  had  my  days  of  gloom  and  self-reproach,  from  time  to  time, 
since  then.  I  have  sickened  at  my  slavery,  and  subjection,  and 
duplicity,  and  cringing,  first  under  one  master,  then  under  another. 
I  have  longed  to  look  back  at  my  life,  and  comfort  myself  with  the 
sight  of  some  good  action,  just  as  a  frugal  man  comforts  himself 
with  the  sight  of  his  little  savings  laid  by  in  an  old  drawer.  I  can't 
do  this,  and  I  want  to  do  it.  The  want  takes  me  like  a  fit,  at  un- 
certain intervals — suddenly,  under  the  most  incomprehensible  in- 
fluences. A  glance  up  at  the  blue  sky — starlight  over  the  houses 
of  this  great  city,  when  I  look  out  at  the  night  from  my  garret  win- 
dow— a  child's  voice  coming  suddenly,  I  don't  know  where  from— 
the  piping  of  my  neighbor's  linnet  in  his  little  cage  —  now  one 
trifling  thing,  now  another— wakes  up  that  want  in  me  in  a  mo- 
ment. Rascal  as  I  am,  those  few  simple  words  your  sister  spoke  to 
the  judge  went  through  and  through  me  like  a  knife.  Strange,  in  a 
man  like  me,  isn't  it  ?  I  am  amazed  at  it  myself.  My  life  ?  Bah ! 
I've  let  it  out  for  hire  to  be  kicked  about  by  rascals  from  one  dirty 
place  to  another,  like  a  foot-ball !  It's  my  whim  to  give  it  a  last 
kick  myself,  and  throw  it  away  decently  before  it  lodges  on  the 
dunghill  forever.  Your  sister  kept  a  good  cup  of  coffee  hot  for  me, 
and  I  give  her  a  bad  life  in  return  for  the  compliment.  You  want 
to  thank  me  for  it  £  What  folly !  Thank  me  when  I  have  done 
something  useful.  Don't  thank  me  for  that !" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  contemptuously  as  he  spoke,  and  walked 
away  to  the  outer  door  to  receive  the  jailer,  who  returned  at  that 
moment. 

"  Well,"  inquired  the  hunchback,  "  has  any  body  asked  for  me  ?" 
"No,"  answered  Lomaque;   "not  a  soul  has  entered  the  room. 
What  sort  of  wine  did  you  get  ?" 

"  So-so  !     Good  at  a  pinch,  friend — good  at  a  pinch." 
"Ah !  you  should  go  to  my  shop  and  try  a  certain  cask,  filled  with 
a  particular  vintage." 

"  What  shop  ?     Which  vintage  ?" 


M-IT.B  ROSE.  I '21 

"  I  can't  stop  to  tell  you  now ;  but  we  shall  most  likely  meet  again 
to -ihiy.  I  expect  to  be  at  the  prison  this  afternoon.  Shall  I  ask  for 
you?  Good  !  I  won't  forget  !"  With  those  farewell  words  he  went 
out,  and  never  so  niucli  as  looked  back  at  the  prisoners  before  he 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Trudaine  returned  to  his  sister,  fearful  lest  his  face  should  betray 
what  had  passed  during  the  extraordinary  interview  between  Lo- 
maque  and  himself.  But,  whatever  change  there  might  be  in  his 
expression,  Rose  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. .  She  was  still  strangely 
inattentive  to  all  outward  things.  That  spirit  of  resignation,  which 
is  tin-  courage  of  women  in  all  great  emergencies,  seemed  now  to  be 
the  one  animating  spirit  that  fed  the  flame  of  life  within  her. 

When  her  brother  sat  down  by  her,  she  only  took  his  hand  gently 
and  said,  "  Let  us  stop  together  like  this,  Louis,  till  the  time  comes. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  it,  for  I  have  nothing  but  you  to  make  me  love 
life,  and  you,  too,  are  going  to  die.  Do  you  remember  the  time  when 
I  u-eil  to  grieve  that  I  had  never  had  a  child  to  be  some  comfort  to 
me  ?  I  was  thinking,  a  moment  ago,  how  terrible  it  would  have  been 
now,  if  my  wish  had  been  granted.  It  is  a  blessing  for  me,  in  this 
great  misery,  that  I  am  childless.  Let  us  talk  of  old  days,  Louis,  as 
long  as  we  can — not  of  my  husband,  or  my  marriage — only  of  the 
old  times,  before  I  was  a  burden  and  a  trouble  to  you." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  day  wore  on.  By  ones  and  twos  and  threes  at  a  time,  the 
condemned  prisoners  came  from  the  tribunal,  and  collected  in  the 
waiting-room.  At  two  o'clock  all  was  ready  for  the  calling  over 
of  the  death-list.  It  was  read  and  verified  by  an  officer  of  the 
court ;  and  then  the  jailer  took  his  prisoners  back  to  St.  Lazare. 

Kveniivt:  came.  The  prisoners'  meal  had  been  served;  the  dupli- 
cate of  the  death-list  had  been  read  in  public  at  the  grate ;  the  cell 
doors  were  all  locked.  From  the  day  of  their  arrest,  Rose  and  her 
brother,  partly  through  the  influence  of  a  bribe,  partly  through  Lo- 
maque's  intercession,  had  been  confined  together  in  one  cell ;  and  to- 
gether they  now  awaited  the  dread  event  of  the  fnorrow. 

To  Rose  that  event  was  death — death,  to  the  thought  of  which, 
at  least,  she  was  now  resigned.  To  Trudaine  the  fast-nearing  future 
was  darkening  hour  by  hour,  with  the  uncertainty  which  is  worse 
than  death  ;  with  the  faint,  fearful,  unpartaken  suspense,  which  keeps 
the  mind  ever  on  the  rack,  and  wears  away  the  heart  slowly. 
Through  the  long  unsolaced  agony  of  that  dreadful  night,  but  one 
relief  came  to  him.  The  tension  of  every  nerve,  the  crushing  weight 

5* 


122  AFTER  DARK. 

of  the  one  fatal  oppression  that  clung  to  every  thought,  relaxed  a 
little,  when  Rose's  bodily  powers  began  to  sink  under  her  mental 
exhaustion — when  her  sad,  dying  talk  of  the  happy  times  that  were 
passed  ceased  softly,  and  she  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  let 
the  angel  of  slumber  take  her  yet  for  a  little  while,  even  though  she 
lay  already  under  the  shadow  of  the  angel  of  death. 

The  morning  came,  and  the  hot  summer  sunrise.  What  life  was 
left  in  the  terror-struck  city  awoke  for  the  day  faintly ;  and  still  the 
suspense  of  the  long  night  remained  unlightened.  It  was  draw- 
ing near  the  hour  when  the  tumbrils  were  to  come  for  the  victims 
doomed  on  the  day  before.  Trudaine's  ear  could  detect  even  the 
faintest  sound  in  the  echoing  prison  region  outside  his  cell.  Soon, 
listening  near  the  door,  he  heard  voices  disputing  on  the  other  side 
of  it.  Suddenly,  the  bolts  were  drawn  back,  the  key  turned  in  the 
lock,  and  lie  found  himself  standing  face  to  face  with  the  hunch- 
back and  one  of  the  subordinate  attendants  on  the  prisoners. 

"  Look !"  muttered  this  last  man,  sulkily,  "  there  they  are,  safe  in 
their  cell,  just  as  I  said ;  but  I  tell  you  again  they  are  not  down  in 
the  list.  What  do  you  mean  by  bullying  me  about  not  chalking 
their  door,  last  night,  along  with  the  rest  ?  Catch  me  doing  your 
work  for  you  again,  when  you're  too  drunk  to  do  it  yourself!" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  let  me  have  another  look  at  the  list !" 
returned  the  hunchback,  turning  away  from  the  cell  door,  and 
snatching  a  slip  of  paper  from  the  other's  hand.  "  The  devil  take 
me  if  I  can  make  head  or  tail  of  it !"  he  exclaimed,  scratching  his 
head,  after  a  careful  examination  of  the  list.  "  I  could  swear  that  I 
read  over  their  names  at  the  grate  yesterday  afternoon  with  my  own 
lips ;  and  yet,  look  as  long  as  I  may,  I  certainly  can't  find  them  writ- 
ten down  here.  Give  us  a  pinch,  friend.  Am  I  awake,  or  dreaming  ? 
drunk  or  sober  this  morning  ?" 

"Sober,  I  hope,"  said  a  quiet  voice  at  his  elbow.  "I  have  just 
looked  in  to  see  how  you  are  after  yesterday." 

"  How  I  am,  Citizen  Lomaque  ?  Petrified  with  astonishment.  You 
yourself  took  charge  of  that  man  and  woman  for  me,  in  the  waiting- 
room,  yesterday  morning ;  and  as  for  myself,  I  could  swear  to  having 
read  their  names  at  the  grate  yesterday  afternoon.  Yet  this  morn- 
ing here  are  no  such  things  as  these  said  names  to  be  found  in  the 
list !  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"And  what  do  you  think,"  interrupted  the  aggrieved  subordinate, 
"  of  his  having  the  impudence  to  bully  me  for  being  careless  in 
chalking  the  doors,  when  he  was  too  drunk  to  do  it  himself?  too 
drunk  to  know  his  right  hand  from  his  left !  If  I  wasn't  the  best- 
natured  man  in  the  world,  I  should  report  him  to  the  head  jailer." 

"  Quite  right  of  you  to  excuse  him,  and  quite  wrong  of  him  to 
bully  you,"  said  Lomaque,  persuasively.  "Take  my  advice,"  he 


SISTER  ROSE.  123 

continued,  confidentially,  to  the  hunchback,  "and  don't  trust  too 
implicitly  to  that  slippery  memory  of  yours,  after  our  little  drink- 
in  <;  1 10  nt  yesterday.  You  could  not  really  have  read  their  names  at 
tin-  finite,  you  know,  or  of  course  they  would  be  down  on  the  list. 
As  for  the  waiting-room  at  the  tribunal,  a  word  in  your  ear :  chief 
agents  of  police  know  strange  secrets.  The  president  of  the  court 
condemns  and  pardons  in  public;  but  there  is  somebody  tlse,  with 
tin-  power  often  thousand  presidents,  who  now  and  then  condemns 
and  pardons  in  private.  You  can  guess  who.  I  say  no  more,  ex- 
cept that  I  recommend  you  to  keep  your  head  on  your  shoulders, 
by  troubling  it  about  nothing  but  the  list  there  in  your  hand.  Stick 
to  that  literally,  and  nobody  can  blame  you.  Make  a  fuss  about 
mysteries  that  don't  concern  you,  and— " 

Lomaque  stopped,  and  holding  his  hand  edgewise,  let  it  drop  sig- 
niticantly  over  the  hunchback's  head.  That  action  and  the  hints 
which  preceded  it  seemed  to  bewilder  the  little  man  more  than 
ever.  He  stared  perplexedly  at  Lomaque ;  uttered  a  word  or  two 
of  rough  apology  to  his  subordinate,  and  rolling  his  misshapen  head 
portentously,  walked  away  with  the  death-list  crumpled  up  nervous- 
ly in  his  hand. 

••  I  >hould  like  to  have  a  sight  of  them,  and  see  if  they  really  are 
the  same  man  and  woman  whom  I  looked  after  yesterday  morning 
in  the  waiting-room,"  said  Lomaque,  putting  his  hand  on  the  cell 
door,  just  as  the  deputy-jailer  was  about  to  close  it  again. 

"  Look  in,  by  all  means,"  said  the  man.  "  No  doubt  you  will  find 
that  drunken  booby  as  wrong  in  what  he  told  you  about  them  as 
he  is  about  every  thing  else." 

Lomaque  made  use  of  the  privilege  granted  to  him  immediately. 
He  saw  Trudaine  sitting  with  his  sister  in  the  corner  of  the  cell 
farthest  from  the  door,  evidently  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  her 
from  overhearing  the  conversation  outside.  There  was  an  unsettled 
look,  however,  in  her  eyes,  a  slowly-heightening  color  in  her  cheeks, 
which  showed  her  to  be  at  least  vaguely  aware  that  something  unu 
sual  had  been  taking  place  in  the  corridor. 

Lomaque  beckoned  to  Trudaine  to  leave  her,  and  whispered  to 
him,  "  The  prescription  has  worked  well.  You  are  safe  for  to-day. 
Hreak  the  news  to  your  sister  as  gently  as  you  can.  Danville — 
He  stopped  and  listened  till  he  satisfied  himself,  by  the  sound  of 
the  deputy-jailer's  footsteps,  that  the  man  was  lounging  toward  the 
farther  end  of  the  corridor.  "  Danville,"  he  resumed,  "  after  hav- 
ing mixed  with  the  people  outside  the  grate  yesterday,  and  having 
heard  your  names  read,  was  arrested  in  the  evening  by  secret  order 
from  Robespierre,  and  sent  to  the  Temple.  What  charge  will  be 
laid  to  him,  or  when  he  will  be  brought  to  trial,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  I  only  know  that  he  is  arrested.  Hush!  don't  talk  now;  my 


124  AFTER  DAEK. 

friend  outside  is  coming  back.  Keep  quiet — hope  every  thing  from 
the  chances  and  changes  of  public  affairs ;  and  comfort  yourself  with 
the  thought  that  you  are  both  safe  for  to-day." 

"  And  to-morrow  ?"  whispered  Trudaine. 

"  Don't  think  of  to-morrow,"  returned  Lomaque,  turning  away 
hurriedly  to  the  door.  "  Let  to-morrow  take  care  of  itself." 


PART  THIRD.— CHAPTER  I. 

ON  a  spring  morning,  in  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety- 
eight,  the  public  conveyance  then  running  between  Chalons-sur- 
Marne  and  Paris  set  down  one  of  its  outside  passengers  at  the  first 
post-station  beyond  Meaux.  The  traveler,  an  old  man,  after  looking 
about  him  hesitatingly  for  a  moment  or  two,  betook  himself  to  a 
little  inn  opposite  the  post-house,  known  by  the  sign  of  the  Piebald 
Horse,  and  kept  by  the  Widow  Duval — a  woman  who  enjoyed  and 
deserved  the  reputation  of  being  the  fastest  talker  and  the  best 
maker  of  gibelotte  in  the  whole  locality. 

Although  the  traveler  was  carelessly  noticed  by  the  village  idlers, 
and  received  without  ceremony  by  the  Widow  Duval,  he  was  by  no 
means  so  ordinary  and  uninteresting  a  stranger  as  the  rustics  of  the 
place  were  pleased  to  consider  him.  The  time  had  been  when  this 
quiet,  elderly,  unobtrusive  applicant  for  refreshment  at  the  Piebald 
Horse  was  trusted  with  the  darkest  secrets  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
and  was  admitted  at  all  times  and  seasons  to  speak  face  to  face  with 
Maximilien  Robespierre  himself.  The  Widow  Duval  and  the  hang- 
ers-on in  front  of  the  post-house  would  have  been  all  astonished  in- 
deed, if  any  well-informed  personage  from  the  metropolis  had  been 
present  to  tell  them  that  the  modest  old  traveler  with  the  shabby 
little  carpet-bag  was  an  ex-chief  agent  of  the  secret  police  of  Paris ! 

Between  three  and  four  years  had  elapsed  since  Lomaque  had  ex- 
ercised, for  the  last  time,  his  official  functions  under  the  Reign  of 
Terror.  His  shoulders  had  contracted  an  extra  stoop,  and  his  hair 
had  all  fallen  off,  except  at  the  sides  and  back  of  his  head.  In  some 
other  respects,  however,  advancing  age  seemed  to  have  improved 
rather  than  deteriorated  him  in  personal  appearance.  His  com- 
plexion looked  healthier,  his  expression  cheerfuller,  his  eyes  bright- 
er than  they  had  ever  been  of  late  years.  He  walked,  too,  with  a 
brisker  step  than  the  step  of  old  times  in  the  police  office ;  and  his 
dress,  although  it  certainly  did  not  look  like  the  costume  of  a  man 
in  affluent  circumstances,  was  cleaner  and  far  more  neatly  worn  than 
ever  it  had  been  in  the  past  days  of  his  political  employment  at 
Paris. 


SISTER  KOSE.  125 

He  sat  down  alone  in  the  inn  parlor,  and  occupied  the  time,  while 
his  hostess  had  gone  to  fetch  the  half-bottle  of  wine  that  he  order- 
ed, in  examining  a  dirty  old  card  which  he  extricated  from  a  mass 
of  papers  in  his  pocket-book,  and  which  bore,  written  on  it,  these 
lines : 

"When  the  troubles  are  over,  do  not  forget  those  who  remember 
you  with  eternal  gratitude.  Stop  at  the  first  post -station  beyond 
Meaux,  on  the  high-road  to  Paris,  and  ask  at  the  inn  for  Citizen 
Maurice,  whenever  you  wish  to  see  us  or  to  hear  of  us  again." 

"  Pray,"  inquired  Lomaque,  putting  the  card  in  his  pocket  when 
the  Widow  Duval  brought  in  the  wine,  "  can  you  inform  me  wheth- 
er a  person  named  Maurice  lives  anywhere  in  this  neighborhood?" 

"  Can  I  inform  you  ?"  repeated  the  voluble  widow.  '•  Of  course  I 
can!  Citizen  Maurice,  and  the  citoyenne,  his  amiable  sister — who 
is  not  to  be  passed  over  because  you  don't  mention  her,  my  honest 
man — lives  within  ten  minutes1  walk  of  my  house.  A  charming  cot- 
tage, in  a  charming  situation,  inhabited  by  two  charming  people — 
so  quiet,  so  retiring,  such  excellent  pay.  I  supply  them  with  every 
thing — fowls,  eggs,  bread,  butter,  vegetables  (not  that  they  eat  much 
of  any  thing),  wine  (which  they  don't  drink  half  enough  of  to  do 
them  good) ;  in  short,  I  victual  the  dear  little  hermitage,  and  love 
the  two  amiable  recluses  with  all  my  heart.  Ah !  they  have-  had 
their  troubles,  poor  people,  the  sister  especially,  though  they  never 
talk  about  them.  When  they  first  came  to  live  in  our  neighbor- 
hood—" 

"  I  beg  pardon,  citoyenne,  but  if  you  would  only  be  so  kind  as  to 
direct  me — " 

"Which  is  three — no,  four — no,  three  years  and  a  half  ago  —  in 
short,  just  after  the  time  when  that  Satan  of  a  man,  Robespierre, 
had  his  head  cut  off  (and  serve  him  right !),  I  said  to  my  husband 
(who  was  on  his  last  legs  then,  poor  man  !),  'She'll  die' — meaning 
the  lady.  She  didn't,  though.  My  fowls,  eggs,  bread,  butter,  vege- 
tables, and  wine  carried  her  through — always  in  combination  with 
the  anxious  care  of  Citizen  Maurice.  Yes,  yes!  let  us  be  tenderly 
conscientious  in  giving  credit  where  credit  is  due  ;  let  us  never  for- 
get that  the  citizen  Maurice  contributed  something  to  the  cure  of 
the  interesting  invalid,  as  well  as  the  victuals  and  drink  from  the 
Piebald  Horse.  There  she  is  now,  the  prettiest  little  woman  in  tin- 
prettiest  little  cottage — 

"Where  ?     Will  you  be  so  obliging  as  to  tell  me  where  ?" 

"And  in  excellent  health,  except  that  she  is  subject  now  and  then 
to  nervous  attacks;  having  evidently,  as  I  believe,  been  struck  with 
some  dreadful  fright— most  likely  during  that  accursed  time  of  the 
Terror;  for  they  came  from  Paris — you  don't  drink,  honest  man! 
Why  don't  you  drink?  Very,  very  pretty  in  a  pale  way;  figure 


126  AFTER   DARK. 

perhaps  too  thin — let  me  pour  it  out  for  you — but  an  angel  of  gentle- 
ness, and  attached  in  such  a  touching  way  to  the  citizen  Maurice — 

"  Citizen  hostess,  will  you,  or  will  you  not,  tell  me  where  they 
live  ?" 

"You  droll  little  man,  why  did  you  not  ask  me  that  before,  if  you 
wanted  to  know  ?  Finish  your  wine,  and  come  to  the  door.  There's 
your  change,  and  thank  you  for  your  custom,  though  it  isn't  much. 
Come  to  the  door,  I  say,  and  don't  interrupt  me!  You're  an  old 
man — can  you  see  forty  yards  before  you  ?  Yes,  you  can !  Don't 
be  peevish  —  that  never  did  any  body  any  good  yet.  Now  look 
back,  along  the  road  where  I  am  pointing.  You  see  a  large  heap 
of  stones  ?  Good.  On  the  other  side  of  the  heap  of  stones  there 
is  a  little  path ;  you  can't  see  that,  but  you  can  remember  what  I 
tell  you  ?  Good.  You  go  down  the  path  till  you  get  to  a  stream ; 
down  the  stream  till  you  get  to  a  bridge;  down  the  other  bank  of 
the  stream  (after  crossing  the  bridge)  till  you  get  to  an  old  water- 
mill — a  jewel  of  a  water-mill,  famous  for  miles  round ;  artists  from 
the  four  quarters  of  the  globe  are  always  coming  to  sketch  it.  Ah  ! 
what,  you  are  getting  peevish  again  ?  You  won't  wait  ?  Impa- 
tient old  man,  what  a  life  your  wife  must  lead,  if  you  have  got  one ! 
Remember  the  bridge.  Ah  !  your  poor  wife  and  children,  I  pity 
them;  your  daughters  especially.  Pst !  pst !  Remember  the  bridge 
—peevish  old  man,  remember  the  bridge  !" 

Walking  as  fast  as  he  could  out  of  hearing  of  the  Widow  Duval's 
tongue,  Lomaque  took  the  path  by  the  heap  of  stones  which  led  out 
of  the  high-road,  crossed  the  stream,  and  arrived  at  the  old  water- 
mill.  Close  by  it  stood  a  cottage — a  rough,  simple  building,  with 
a  strip  of  garden  in  front.  Lomaque's  observant  eyes  marked  the 
graceful  arrangement  of  the  flower-beds,  and  the  delicate  whiteness 
of  the  curtains  that  hung  behind  the  badly-glazed  narrow  windows. 
"  This  must  be  the  place,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  knocked  at  the 
door  with  his  stick.  "  I  can  see  the  traces  of  her  hand  before  I  cross 
the  threshold." 

The  door  was  opened.  "  Pray,  does  the  citizen  Maurice —  Lo- 
maque began,  not  seeing  clearly,  for  the  first  moment,  in  the  dark 
little  passage. 

Before  he  could  say  any  more  his  hand  was  grasped,  his  carpet- 
bag was  taken  from  him,  and  a  well-known  voice  cried,  "  Welcome ! 
a  thousand  thousand  times  welcome,  at  last !  Citizen  Maurice  is  not 
at  home;  but  Louis  Trudaine  takes  his  place,  and  is  overjoyed  to 
see  once  more  the  best  and  dearest  of  his  friends !" 

"  I  hardly  know  you  again.  How  you  are  altered  for  the  better !" 
exclaimed  Lomaque,  as  they  entered  the  parlor  of  the  cottage. 

"  Remember  that  you  see  me  after  a  long  freedom  from  anxiety. 
Since  I  have  lived  here,  I  have  gone  to  rest  at  night,  and  have  not 


SISTER   ROSE.  127 

been  afraid  of  the  morning,"  replied  Trudaine.  He  went  out  into 
the  passage  while  he  spoke,  and  called  at  the  foot  of  the  one  flight 
of  stairs  which  the  cottage  possessed,  "  Rose !  Rose  !  come  down  ! 
•The  friend  whom  you  most  wished  to  see  has  arrived  at  last." 

She  answered  the  summons  immediately.  The  frank,  friendly 
warmth  of  her  greeting ;  her  resolute  determination,  after  the  first 
inquiries  were  over,  to  help  the  guest  to  take  off  his  upper  coat  with 
her  own  hands,  so  confused  and  delighted  Lomaque,  that  he  hardly 
knew  which  way  to  turn,  or  what  to  say. 

"  This  is  even  more  trying,  in  a  pleasant  way,  to  a  lonely  old  fel- 
low like  me,"  he  was  about  to  add, "  than  the  unexpected  civility  of 
the  hot  cup  of  coffee  years  ago  ;'r  but  remembering  what  recollections 
even  that  trifling  circumstance  might  recall,  he  checked  himself. 

"More  trying  than  what?" asked  Rose,  leading  him  to  a  chair. 

"Ah!  I  forget.  I  am  in  my  dotage  already  !"  he  answered,  con- 
fusedly. "I  have  not  got  used  just  yet_to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your 
kind  face  again." 

It  was  indeed  a  pleasure  to  look  at  that  face  now,  after  Lomaque's 
last  experience  of  it.  Three  years  of  repose,  though  they  had  not 
restored  to  Rose  those  youthful  attractions  which  she  had  lost  for- 
ever in  the  days  of  the  Terror,  had  not  passed  without  leaving  kind- 
ly outward  traces  of  their  healing  progress.  Though  the  girlish 
roundness  had  not  returned  to  her  cheeks,  or  the  girlish  delicacy  of 
color  to  her  complexion,  her  eyes  had  recovered  much  of  their  old 
softness,  and  her  expression  all  of  its  old  winning  charm.  What 
was  left  of  latent  sadness  in  her  fac"e,  and  of  significant  quietness  in 
her  manner,  remained  gently  and  harmlessly — remained  rather  to 
show  what  had  been  once  than  what  was  now. 

When  they  were  all  seated,  there  was,  however,  something  like  a 
momentary  return  to  the  suspense  and  anxiety  of  past  days  in  their 
faces,  as  Trudaine,  looking  earnestly  at  Lomaque,  asked, "  Do  you 
bring  any  news  from  Paris  ?" 

"  None,"  he  replied ;  "  but  excellent  news,  instead,  from  Rouen. 
I  have  heard,  accidentally,  through  the  employer  whom  I  have  been 
serving  since  we  parted,  that  your  old  house  by  the  river-side  is  to 
let  again." 

Rose  started  from  her  chair.  "  Oh,  Louis,  if  we  could  only  live 
there  once  more  !  My  flower-garden  ?"  she  continued  to  Lomaque. 

"  Cultivated  throughout,"  he  answered,  "  by  the  late  proprietor." 

"  And  the  laboratory  ?"  added  her  brother. 

"  Left  standing,"  said  Lomaque.  "  Here  is  a  letter  with  all  the 
particulars.  You  may  depend  upon  them,  for  the  writer  is  the  per- 
son charged  with  the  letting  of  the  house." 

Trudaine  looked  over  the  letter  eagerly. 

"  The  price  is  not  beyond  our  means,"  he  said.    "  After  our  three 


128  AFTEK   DARK. 

years'  economy  here,  we  can  afford  to  give  something  for  a  great 
pleasure." 

"  Oh,  what  a  day  of  happiness  it  will  be  when  we  go  home 
again!"  cried  Rose.  "Pray  write  to  your  friend  at  once,"  she  add- 
ed, addressing  Lomaque,  "  and  say  we  take  the  house,  before  any 
one  else  is  beforehand  with  us !" 

He  nodded,  and  folding  up  the  letter  mechanically  in  the  old  of- 
ficial form,  made  a  note  on  it  in  the  old  official  manner.  Trudaine 
observed  the  action,  and  felt  its  association  with  past  times  of  trou- 
ble and  terror.  His  face  grew  grave  again  as  he  said  to  Lomaque, 
"  And  is  this  good  news  really  all  the  news  of  importance  you  have 
to  tell  us  ?" 

Lomaque  hesitated,  and  fidgeted  in  his  chair.  "What  other  news 
I  have  will  bear  keeping,"  he  replied.  "  There  are  many  questions 
I  should  like  to  ask  first,  about  your  sister  and  yourself.  Do  you 
mind  allowing  me  to  refer  for  a  moment  to  the  time  when  we  last 
met  ?" 

He  addressed  this  inquiry  to  Rose,  who  answered  in  the  nega- 
tive ;  but  her  voice  seemed  to  falter,  even  in  saying  the  one  word 
"  No."  She  turned  her  head  away  when  she  spoke ;  and  Lomaque 
noticed  that  her  hands  trembled  as  she  took  up  some  work  lying  on 
a  table  near,  and  hurriedly  occupied  herself  with  it. 

"  We  speak  as  little  about  that  time  as  possible,"  said  Trudaine, 
looking  significantly  toward  his  sister ;  "  but  we  have  some  ques- 
tions to  ask  you  in  our  turn ;  so  the  allusion,  for  this  once,  is  inev- 
itable. Your  sudden  disappearance  at  the  very  crisis  of  that  time 
of  danger  has  not  yet  been  fully  explained  to  us.  The  one  short 
note  which  you  left  behind  you  helped  us  to  guess  at  what  had  hap- 
pened rather  than  to  understand  it." 

"  I  can  easily  explain  it  now,"  answered  Lomaque.  "  The  sudden 
overthrow  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  which  was  salvation  to  you,  was 
destruction  to  me.  The  new  republican  reign  was  a  reign  of  mercy, 
except  for  the  tail  of  Robespierre,  as  the  phrase  ran  then.  Every 
man  who  had  been  so  wicked  or  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  involved, 
even  in  the  meanest  capacity,  with  the  machinery  of  the  government 
of  Terror,  was  threatened,  and  justly,  with  the  fate  of  Robespierre. 
I,  among  others,  fell  under  this  menace  of  death.  I  deserved  to  die, 
and  should  have  resigned  myself  to  the  guillotine  but  for  you. 
From  the  course  taken  by  public  events,  I  knew  you  would  be 
saved ;  and  although  your  safety  was  the  work  of  circumstances, 
still  I  had  a  hand  in  rendering  it  possible  at  the  outset;  and  a 
yearning  came  over  me  to  behold  you  both  free  again  with  my  own 
eyes — a  selfish  yearning  to  see  in  you  a  living,  breathing,  real  result 
of  the  one  good  impulse  of  mv  heart,  which  I  could  look  back  on 
with  satisfaction.  This  desire  gave  me  a  new  interest  in  life.  I  re- 


SISTER  ROSE.  120 

solved  to  escape  death  if  it  were  possible.  For  ten  days  I  lay  hid- 
den in  Paris.  After  that — thanks  to  certain  scraps  of  useful  knowl- 
edge which  my  experience  in  the  office  of  secret  police  had  given 
me — I  succeeded  in  getting  clear  of  Paris  and  in  making  my  way 
safely  to  Switzerland.  The  rest  of  my  story  is  so  short,  and  so  soon 
told,  that  I  may  as  well  get  it  over  at  once.  The  only  relation  I  knew 
of  in  the  world  to  apply  to,  was  a  cousin  of  mine  (whom  I  had  nev- 
er seen  before),  established  as  a  silk-mercer  at  Berne.  I  threw  my- 
self on  this  man's  mercy.  He  discovered  that  I  was  likely,  with  my 
business  habits,  to  be  of  some  use  to  him,  and  he  took  me  into  his 
house.  I  worked  for  what  he  pleased  to  give  me,  traveled  about 
for  him  in  Switzerland,  deserved  his  confidence,  and  won  it.  Till 
within  the  last  few  months  I  remained  with  him;  and  only  left  my 
employment  to  enter,  by  my  master's  own  desire,  the  house  of  his 
brother,  established  also  as  a  silk  -  mercer,  at  Chalons  -sur-Marne. 
In  the  counting-house  of  this  merchant  I  am  corresponding  clerk, 
and  am  only  able  to  come  and  see  you  now  by  offering  to  under- 
take a  special  business  mission  for  my  employer  at  Paris.  It  is 
drudgery,  at  my  time  of  life,  after  all  I  have  gone  through — but  my 
hard  work  is  innocent  work.  I  am  not  obliged  to  cringe  for  every 
crown-piece  I  put  in  my  pocket — not  bound  to  denounce,  deceive, 
and  dog  to  death  other  men,  before  I  can  earn  my  bread,  and  scrape 
together  money  enough  to  bury  me.  I  am  ending  a  bad,  base  life 
harmlessly  at  last.  It  is  a  poor  thing  to  do,  but  it  is  something 
done — and  even  that  contents  a  man  at  my  age.  In  short,  I  am 
happier  than  I  used  to  be,  or  at  least  less  ashamed  when  I  look  peo- 
ple like  you  in  the  face." 

"  Hush !  hush !"  interrupted  Rose,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"  I  can  not  allow  you  to  talk  of  yourself  in  that  way,  even  in  jest." 

"I  was  speaking  in  earnest,"  answered  Lomaque,  quietly  ;  "but  I 
won't  weary  you  with  any  more  words  about  myself.  My  story  is 
told." 

"  All  ?"  asked  Trudaine.  He  looked  searchingly,  almost  suspi- 
ciously at  Lomaque,  as  he  put  the  question.  "  All  ?"  he  repeated. 
"  Yours  is  a  short  story,  indeed,  my  good  friend !  Perhaps  you  have 
forgotten  some  of  it  ?" 

Again  Lomaque  fidgeted  and  hesitated. 

"  Is  it  not  a  little  hard  on  an  old  man  to  be  always  asking  ques- 
tions of  him,  and  never  answering  one  of  his  inquiries  in  return?" 
he  said  to  Rose,  very  gayly  as  to  manner,  but  rather  uneasily  as  to 
look. 

"  He  will  not  speak  out  till  we  two  are  alone,"  thought  Trudaine. 
"  It  is  best  to  risk  nothing,  and  to  humor  him." 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said  aloud,  "  no  grumbling.  I  admit  that  it  is 
your  turn  to  hear  our  story  now;  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  gratify 


130  AFTER  DARK. 

you.  But  before  I  begin,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  sister,  "  let  me 
suggest,  Rose,  that  if  you  have  any  household  matters  to  settle  up 
stairs — " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  interrupted,  hurriedly,  taking  up 
the  work  which,  during  the  last  few  minutes,  she  had  allowed  to 
drop  into  her  lap ;  "  but  I  am  stronger  than  you  think ;  I  can  face 
the  worst  of  our  recollections  composedly.  Go  on,  Louis ;  pray  go 
on — I  am  quite  fit  to  stop  and  hear  you." 

"  You  know  what  we  suffered  in  the  first  days  of  our  suspense, 
after  the  success  of  your  stratagem,"  said  Trudaine,  turning  to  Lo- 
maque.  "  I  think  it  was  on  the  evening  after  we  had  seen  you  for 
the  last  time  at  St.  Lazare  that  strange,  confused  rumors  of  an  im- 
pending convulsion  in  Paris  first  penetrated  within  our  prison  walls. 
During  the  next  few  days  the  faces  of  our  jailers  were  enough  to 
show  us  that  those  rumors  were  true,  and  that  the  Reign  of  Terror 
was  actually  threatened  with  overthrow  at  the  hands  of  the  Mod- 
erate Party.  We  had  hardly  time  to  hope  every  thing  from  this 
blessed  change  before  the  tremendous  news  of  Robespierre's  at- 
tempted suicide,  then  of  his  condemnation  and  execution,  reached 
us.  The  confusion  produced  in  the  prison  was  beyond  all  descrip- 
tion. The  accused  who  had  been  tried  and  the  accused  who  had 
not  been  tried  got  mingled  together.  From  the  day  of  Robespierre's 
arrest,  no  orders  came  to  the  authorities,  no  death-lists  reached  the 
prison.  The  jailers,  terrified  by  rumors  that  the  lowest  accomplices 
of  the  tyrant  would  be  held  responsible,  and  be  condemned  with  him, 
made  no  attempt  to  maintain  order.  Some  of  them  —  that  hunch- 
backed man  among  the  rest  —  deserted  their  duties  altogether. 
The  disorganization  was  so  complete,  that  when  the  commissioners 
from  the  new  Government  came  to  St.  Lazare,  some  of  us  were  actu- 
ally half  starving  from  want  of  the  bare  necessities  of  life.  To  in- 
quire separately  into  our  cases  was  found  to  be  impossible.  Some- 
times the  necessary  papers  were  lost;  sometimes  what  documents 
remained  were  incomprehensible  to  the  new  commissioners.  They 
were  obliged,  at  last,  to  make  short  work  of  it  by  calling  us  up  be- 
fore them  in  dozens.  Tried  or  not  tried,  we  had  all  been  arrested 
by  the  tyrant,  had  all  been  accused  of  conspiracy  against  him,  and 
were  all  ready  to  hail  the  new  Government  as  the  salvation  of 
France.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  our  best  claim  to  be  discharged 
was  derived  from  these  circumstances.  "We  were  trusted  by  Tallien 
and  the  men  of  the  Ninth  Thermidor,  because  we  had  been  suspect- 
ed by  Robespierre,  Couthon,  and  St.  Just.  Arrested  informally,  we 
were  now  liberated  informally.  When  it  came  to  my  sister's  turn 
and  mine,  we  were  not  under  examination  five  minutes.  No  such 
thing  as  a  searching  question  was  asked  of  us ;  I  believe  we  might 
even  have  given  our  own  names  with  perfect  impunity.  But  I  had 


SISTER  ROSE.  131 

previously  instructed  Rose  that  we  were  to  assume  our  mother's 
maiden  name — Maurice.  As  the  citizen  and  citoyenne  Maurice,  ac- 
cordingly, we  passed  out  of  prison — under  the  same  name  we  have 
lived  ever  since  in  hiding  here.  Our  past  repose  has  depended,  our 
future  happiness  will  depend,  on  our  escape  from  death  being  kept 
the  profouudest  secret  among  us  three.  For  one  all-sufficient  rea- 
son, which  you  can  easily  guess  at,  the  brother  and  sister  Maurice 
must  still  know  nothing  of  Louis  Trudaine  and  Rose  Danville,  ex- 
cept that  they  were  two  among  the  hundreds  of  victims  guillotined 
during  the  Reign  of  Terror." 

He  spoke  the  last  sentence  with  a  faint  smile,  and  with  the  air  of 
a  man  trying,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  treat  a  grave  subject  lightly. 
His  face  clouded  again,  however,  in  a  moment,  when  he  looked  to- 
ward his  sister,  as  he  ceased.  Her  work  had  once  more  dropped  on 
her  lap,  her  face  was  turned  away  so  that  he  could  not  see  it ;  but 
he  knew  by  the  trembling  of  her  clasped  hands,  as  they  rested  on 
her  knee,  and  by  the  slight  swelling  of  the  veins  on  her  neck  which 
she  could  not  hide  from  him,  that  her  boasted  strength  of  nerve  had 
deserted  her.  Three  years  of  repose  had  not  yet  enabled  her  to  hear 
her  marriage  name  uttered,  or  to  be  present  when  past  times  of 
deathly  suffering  and  terror  were  referred  to,  without  betraying  the 
shock  in  her  face  and  manner.  Trudaine  looked  saddened,  but  in 
no  way  surprised  by  what  he  saw.  Making  a  sign  to  Lomaque  to 
say  nothing,  he  rose  and  took  up  his  sister's  hood,  which  lay  on  a 
window-seat  near  him. 

"  Come,  Rose,"  he  said,  "  the  sun  is  shining,  the  sweet  spring  air  is 
inviting  us  out.  Let  us  have  a  quiet  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the 
stream.  Why  should  we  keep  our  good  friend  here  cooped  up  in 
this  narrow  little  room,  when  we  have  miles  and  miles  of  beautiful 
landscape  to  show  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  threshold  ?  Come, 
it  is  high  treason  to  Queen  Nature  to  remain  indoors  on  such  a 
morning  as  this." 

Without  waiting  for  her  to  reply,  he  put  on  her  hood,  drew  her 
arm  through  his,  and  led  the  way  out  Lomaque's  face  grew  grave 
as  he  followed  them. 

"  I  am  glad  I  only  showed  the  bright  side  of  my  budget  of  news 
in  her  presence,"  thought  he.  "She  is  not  well  at  heart  yet.  I 
might  have  hurt  her,  poor  thing !  I  might  have  hurt  her  again 
sadly,  if  I  had  not  held  my  tongue  !" 

They  walked  for  a  little  while  down  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
talking  of  indifferent  matters;  then  returned  to  the  cottage.  By 
that  time  Rose  had  recovered  her  spirits,  and  could  listen  with  in- 
trrrst  and  amusement  to  Lomaque's  dryly-humorous  description  of 
his  life  as  a  clerk  at  Chalons-sur-Marne.  They  parted  for  a  little 
while  at  the  cottage  door.  Rose  retired  to  the  up  stairs  room  from 


132  AFTER   DARK. 

which  she  had  been  summoned  by  her  brother.  Trudaine  and  Lo- 
maque  returned  to  wander  again  along  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

With  one  accord,  and  without  a  word  passing  between  them,  they 
left  the  neighborhood  of  the  cottage  hurriedly ;  then  stopped  on  a 
sudden,  and  attentively  looked  each  other  in  the  face — looked  in  si- 
lence for  an  instant.  Trudaine  spoke  first. 

"  I  thank  you  for  having  spared  her,"  he  began,  abruptly.  "  She 
is  not  strong  enough  yet  to  bear  hearing  of  a  new  misfortune,  unless 
I  break  the  tidings  to  her  first." 

"  You  suspect  me,  then,  of  bringing  bad  news  ?"  said  Lomaque. 

"  I  know  you  do.  When  I  saw  your  first  look  at  her,  after  we 
were  all  seated  in  the  cottage  parlor,  I  knew  it.  Speak  without 
fear,  without  caution,  without  one  useless  word  of  preface.  After 
three  years  of  repose,  if  it  pleases  God  to  afflict  us  again,  I  can  bear 
the  trial  calmly ;  and,  if  need  be,  can  strengthen  her  to  bear  it  calm- 
ly too.  I  say  again,  Lomaque,  speak  at  once,  and  speak  out!  I 
know  your  news  is  bad,  for  I  know  beforehand  that  it  is  news  of 
Danville." 

"  You  are  right ;  my  bad  news  is  news  of  him." 

"  He  has  discovered  the  secret  of  our  escape  from  the  guillotine  ?" 

"  No — he  has  not  a  suspicion  of  it.  He  believes — as  his  mother, 
as  every  one  does — that  you  were  both  executed  the  day  after  the 
Revolutionary  Tribunal  sentenced  you  to  death." 

"  Lomaque,  you  speak  positively  of  that  belief  of  his — but  you  can 
not  be  certain  of  it." 

"  I  can,  on  the  most  indisputable,  the  most  startling  evidence — on 
the  authority  of  Danville's  own  act.  You  have  asked  me  to  speak 
out—" 

"  I  ask  you  again — I  insist  on  it !  Your  news,  Lomaque — your 
news,  without  another  word  of  preface !" 

"  You  shall  have  it  without  another  word  of  preface.  Danville  is 
on  the  point  of  being  married." 

As  the  answer  was  given  they  both  stopped  by  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  and  again  looked  each  other  in  the  face.  There  was  a  min- 
ute of  dead  silence  between  them.  During  that  minute,  the  water 
bubbling  by  happily  over  its  bed  of  pebbles  seemed  strangely  loud, 
the  singing  of  birds  in  a  little  wood  by  the  stream-side  strangely 
near  and  shrill,  in  both  their  ears.  The  light  breeze,  for  all  its  mid- 
day warmth,  touched  their  cheeks  coldly ;  and  the  spring  sunlight 
pouring  on  their  faces  felt  as  if  it  were  glimmering  on  them  through 
winter  clouds. 

"  Let  us  walk  on,"  said  Trudaiue,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  was  pre- 
pared for  bad  news,  yet  not  for  that.  Are  you  certain  of  what  you 
have  just  told  me  ?" 

"  As  certain  as  that  the  stream  here  is  flowing  by  our  side.    Hear 


BISTER   ROSE.  133 

h<>\\  I  made  the  discovery,  and  you  will  doubt  no  longer.  Before 
l.i-t  uci  k  I  knew  nothing  of  Danville,  except  that  his  arrest  on  sus- 
picion l»y  Robespierre's  order  was,  as  events  turned  out,  the  saving 
of  his  life.  He  was  imprisoned,  as  I  told  you,  on  the  evening  after 
he  h:ul  heard  your  names  read  from  the  death -list  at  the  prison 
unite.  He  remained  in  confinement  at  the  Temple,  unnoticed  in  the 
political  confusion  out-of-doors,  just  as  you  remained  unnoticed  at 
St.  Lazare,  and  he  profited  precisely  in  the  same  manner  that  you 
profited  by  the  timely  insurrection  which  overthrew  the  Reign  of 
Terror.  I  knew  this,  and  I  knew  that  he  walked  out  of  prison  in 
the  character  of  a  persecuted  victim  of  Robespierre's — and,  for  bet- 
ter than  three  years  past,  I  knew  no  more.  Now  listen.  Last  week 
I  hapi>ened  to  be  waiting  in  the  shop  of  my  employer,  Citizen  Clair- 
fait,  for  some  papers  to  take  into  the  counting-house,  when  an  old 
man  enters  with  a  sealed  parcel,  which  he  hands  to  one  of  the  shop- 
men, saying : 

" '  Give  that  to  Citizen  Clairfait.' 

" '  Any  name  ?'  says  the  shop-man. 

"  '  The  name  is  of  no  consequence,'  answers  the  old  man  ;  '  but  if 
you  please  you  can  give  mine.  Say  the  parcel  came  from  Citizen 
Dubois;'  and  then  he  goes  out.  His  name,  in  connection  with  his 
elderly  look,  strikes  me  directly. 

••    Does  that  old  fellow  live  at  Chalons?'  I  ask. 

" '  No,'  says  the  shop-man.  '  He  is  here  in  attendance  on  a  cus- 
tomer of  ours — an  old  ex-aristocrat  named  Danville.  She  is  on  a 
visit  in  our  town.' 

"I  leave  you  to  imagine  how  that  reply  startles  and  amazes  me. 
The  shop-man  can  answer  none  of  the  other  questions  I  put  to  him ; 
but  the  next  day  I  am  asked  to  dinner  by  my  employer  (who,  for 
}\\>  l>rother's  sake,  shows  me  the  utmost  civility).  On  entering  the 
room,  I  find  his  daughter  just  putting  away  a  lavender-colored  silk 
scarf,  on  which  she  has  been  embroidering  in  silver  what  looks  to 
me  very  like  a  crest  and  coat  of  arms. 

" '  I  don't  mind  your  seeing  what  I  am  about,  Citizen  Lomaque,' 
says  she ;  '  for  I  know  my  father  can  trust  you.  That  scarf  is  sent 
back  to  us  by  the  purchaser,  an  ex-emigrant  lady  of  the  old  ari<to- 
cratic  school,  to  have  her  family  coat  of  arms  embroidered  on  it.' 

"  '  Rather  a  dangerous  commission  even  in  these  mercifully  dem- 
ocratic times,  is  it  not  ?'  says  I. 

"  •  The  old  lady,  you  must  know,'  says  she,  'is  as  proud  as  Lucifer; 
and  having  got  back  safely  to  France  m  these  days  of  moderate  re- 
publicanism, thinks  she  may  now  indulge  with  impunity  in  all  her 
old-t'ushioned  notions.  She  has  been  an  excellent  customer  of  ours, 
so  my  father  thought  it  best  to  humor  her,  without,  however,  trust- 
ing her  commission  to  any  of  the  work  -  room  women  to  execute. 


134  AFTER   DARK. 

We  are  not  living  under  the  Reign  of  Terror  now,  certainly ;  still 
there  is  nothing  like  being  on  the  safe  side.' 

" '  Nothing,'  I  answer.    '  Pray  what  is  this  ex-emigrant's  name  ?' 

"  '  Danville,'  replies  the  citoyenne  Clairfait.  '  She  is  going  to  ap- 
pear in  that  fine  scarf  at  her  son's  marriage.' 

" '  Marriage !'  I  exclaim,  perfectly  thunderstruck. 

" '  Yes,'  says  she.  '  What  is  there  so  amazing  in  that  ?  By  all  ac- 
counts, the  son,  poor  man,  deserves  to  make  a  lucky  marriage  this 
time.  His  first  wife  was  taken  away  from  him  in  the  Reign  of  Ter- 
ror by  the  guillotine.' 

" '  Who  is  he  going  to  marry  ?'  I  inquire,  still  breathless. 

"  '  The  daughter  of  General  Berthelin— an  ex-aristocrat  by  fami- 
ly, like  the  old  lady ;  but  by  principle  as  good  a  republican  as  ever 
lived — a  hard-drinking,  loud-swearing,  big-whiskered  old  soldier, 
who  snaps  his  fingers  at  his  ancestors,  and  says  we  are  all  descended 
from  Adam,  the  first  genuine  sans-culotte  in  the  world.' 

"  In  this  way  the  citoyenne  Clairfait  gossips  on  all  dinner-time, 
but  says  nothing  more  of  any  importance.  I,  with  my  old  police- 
office  habits,  set  to  the  next  day,  and  try  to  make  some  discoveries 
for  myself.  The  sum  of  what  I  find  out  is  this :  Danville's  mother 
is  staying  with  General  Berthelin's  sister  and  daughter  at  Chalons, 
and  Danville  himself  is  expected  to  arrive  every  day  to  escort  them 
all  three  to  Paris,  where  the  marriage-contract  is  to  be  signed  at  the 
general's  house.  Discovering  this,  and  seeing  that  prompt  action  is 
now  of  the  most  vital  importance,  I  undertake,  as  I  told  you,  my  em- 
ployer's commission  for  Paris,  depart  with  all  speed,  and  stop  here 
on  my  way.  Wait !  I  have  not  done  yet.  All  the  haste  I  can  make 
is  not  haste  enough  to  give  me  a  good  start  of  the  wedding-party. 
On  my  road  here,  the  diligence  by  which  I  travel  is  passed  by  a  car- 
riage, posting  along  at  full  speed.  I  can  not  see  inside  that  car- 
riage ;  but  I  look  at  the  box-seat,  and  recognize  on  it  the  old  man  Du- 
bois.  He  whirls  by  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  but  I  am  certain  of  him ;  and 
I  say  to  myself,  what  I  now  say  again  to  you,  no  time  is  to  be  lost !" 

"  No  time  shall  be  lost,"  answered  Trudaine,  firmly.  "  Three  years 
have  passed,"  he  continued,  in  a  lower  voice,  speaking  to  himself 
rather  than  to  Lomaque ;  "  three  years  since  the  day  when  I  led  my 
sister  out  of  the  gates  of  the  prison — three  years  since  I  said  in  my 
heart, '  I  will  be  patient,  and  will  not  seek  to  avenge  myself.  Our 
wrongs  cry  from  earth  to  heaven ;  from  man  who  inflicts  to  God  who 
redresses.  When  the  day  of  reckoning  comes,  let  it  be  the  day  of 
his  vengeance,  not  of  mine.'  In  my  heart  I  said  those  words — I 
have  been  true  to  them — I  have  waited.  The  day  has  come,  and  the 
duty  it  demands  of  me  shall  be  fulfilled." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  before  Lomaque  spoke  again.  "  Your 
sister  ?"  he  began,  hesitatingly. 


SISTEB  BOStt.  135 

"  It  is  there  only  that  my  purpose  falters,"  said  the  other,  earnestly. 
"  If  it  were  but  possible  to  spare  her  all  knowledge  of  this  last  trial, 
and  to  leave  the  accomplishment  of  the  terrible  task  to  me  alone  ?" 

"I  think  it  is  possible,"  interposed  Lomaque.  "Listen  to  what 
I  advise.  We  must  depart  for  Paris  by  the  diligence  to-morrow 
morning,  and  we  must  take  your  sister  with  us — to-morrow  will  be 
time  enough;  people  don't  sign  marriage-contracts  on  the  evening 
after  a  long  day's  journey.  We  must  go  then,  and  we  must  take 
your  sister.  Leave  the  care  of  her  in  Paris,  and  the  responsibility 
of  keeping  her  in  ignorance  of  what  you  are  doing,  to  me.  Go  to 
this  General  Berthelin's  house  at  a  time  when  you  know  Danville  is 
there  (we  can  get  that  knowledge  through  the  servants) ;  confront 
him  without  a  moment's  previous  warning;  confront  him  as  a  man 
ri-ni  from  the  dead;  confront  him  before  every  soul  in  the  room, 
though  the  room  should  be  full  of  people — and  leave  the  rest  to  the 
self-betrayal  of  a  panic-stricken  man.  Say  but  three  words,  and 
your  duty  will  be  done ;  you  may  return  to  your  sister,  and  may  de- 
part with  her  in  safety  to  your  old  retreat  at  Rouen,  or  where  else 
you  please,  on  the  very  day  when  you  have  put  it  out  of  her  infa- 
mous husband's  power  to  add  another  to  the  list  of  his  crimes." 

"  You  forget  the  suddenness  of  the  journey  to  Paris,"  said  Tru- 
daine.  "  How  are  we  to  account  for  it  without  the  risk  of  awaken- 
ing my  sister's  suspicions  ?" 

"  Trust  that  to  me,"  answered  Lomaque.  "  Let  us  return  to  the 
cottage  at  once.  No,  not  you,"  he  added,  suddenly,  as  they  turned 
to  retrace  their  steps.  "  There  is  that  in  your  face  which  would  be- 
tray us.  Leave  me  to  go  back  alone — I  will  say  that  you  have  gone 
to  give  some  orders  at  the  inn.  Let  us  separate  immediately.  You 
will  recover  your  self-possession — you  will  get  to  look  yourself  again 
sooner — if  you  are  left  alone.  I  know  enough  of  you  to  know  that. 
We  will  not  waste  another  minute  in  explanations;  even  minutes 
are  precious  to  us  on  such  a  day  as  this.  By  the  time  you  are  fit  to 
meet  your  sister  again,  I  shall  have  had  time  to  say  all  I  wish  to 
her,  and  shall  be  waiting  at  the  cottage  to  tell  you  the  result." 

He  looked  at  Trudaine,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  brighten  again 
with  something  of  the  old  energy  and  sudden  decision  of  the  days 
when  he  was  a  man  in  office  under  the  Reign  of  Terror.  "  Leave  it 
to  me,"  he  said ;  and,  waving  his  hand,  turned  away  quickly  in  the 
direction  of  the  cottage. 

Nearly  an  hour  passed  before  Trudaine  ventured  to  follow  him. 
When  he  at  length  entered  the  path  which  led  to  the  garden  gate, 
he  saw  his  sister  waiting  at  the  cottage  door.  Her  face  looked  un- 
usually animated ;  and  she  ran  forward  a  step  or  two  to  meet  him. 

"  Oh,  Louis  !"  she  said,  "  I  have  a  confession  to  make,  and  I  must 
beg  you  to  hear  it  patiently  to  the  end.  You  must  know  that  our 


136  AFTER  DARK. 

good  Lomaque.  though  he  came  in  tired  from  his  walk,  occupied 
himself  the  first  thing,  at  my  request,  in  writing  the  letter  which  is 
to  secure  to  us  our  dear  old  home  by  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  When 
he  had  done,  he  looked  at  me,  and  said, '  I  should  like  to  be  pres- 
ent at  your  happy  return  to  the  house  where  I  first  saw  you.'  '  Oh, 
come,  come  with  us !'  I  said  directly.  '  I  am  not  an  independent 
man,'  he  answered ;  '  I  have  a  margin  of  time  allowed  me  at  Paris, 
certainly,  but  it  is  not  long — if  I  were  only  my  own  master — '  and 
then  he  stopped.  Louis,  I  remembered  all  we  owed  to  him ;  I  re- 
membered that  there  was  no  sacrifice  we  ought  not  to  be  too  glad 
to  make  for  his  sake ;  I  felt  the  kindness  of  the  wish  he  had  ex- 
pressed; and  perhaps  I  was  a  little  influenced  by  my  own  impa- 
tience to  see  once  more  my  flower-garden  and  the  rooms  where  we 
used  to  be  so  happy.  So  I  said  to  him, '  I  am  sure  Louis  will  agree 
with  me  that  our  time  is  yours,  and  that  we  shall  be  only  too  glad 
to  advance  our  departure  so  as  to  make  traveling  leisure  enough  for 
you  to  come  with  us  to  Rouen.  We  should  be  worse  than  ungrate- 
ful— '  He  stopped  me.  '  You  have  always  been  good  to  me,'  he 
said.  '  I  must  not  impose  on  your  kindness  now.  No,  no,  you  have 
formalities  to  settle  before  you  can  leave  this  place.'  '  Not  one,'  I 
said — for  we  have  not,  as  you  know,  Louis  ?  '  Why,  here  is  your 
furniture  to  begin  with,'  he  said.  '  A  few  chairs  and  tables  hired 
from  the  inn,'  I  answered ;  '  we  have  only  to  give  the  landlady  our 
key,  to  leave  a  letter  for  the  owner  of  the  cottage,  and  then —  He 
laughed.  'Why,  to  hear  you  talk,  one  would  think  you  were  as 
ready  to  travel  as  I  am  !'  '  So  we  are,'  I  said, '  quite  as  ready,  living 
in  the  way  we  do  here.'  He  shook  his  head ;  but  you  will  not  shake 
yours,  Louis,  I  am  sure,  now  you  have  heard  all  my  long  story  ? 
You  can't  blame  me,  can  you  ?" 

Before  Trudaine  could  answer,  Lomaque  looked  out  of  the  cottage 
window. 

"  I  have  just  been  telling  my  brother  every  thing,"  said  Rose,  turn- 
ing round  toward  him. 

"  And  what  does  he  say  ?"  asked  Lomaque. 

"  He  says  what  I  say,"  replied  Rose,  answering  for  her  brother ; 
"that  our  time  is  your  time  —  the  time  of  our  best  and  dearest 
friend." 

"  Shall  it  be  done,  then  ?"  asked  Lomaque,  with  a  meaning  look  at 
Trudaine. 

Rose  glanced  anxiously  at  her  brother ;  his  face  was  much  graver 
than  she  had  expected  to  see  it,  but  his  answer  relieved  her  from  all 
suspense. 

"  You  were  quite  right,  love,  to  speak  as  you  did,"  he  said,  gently. 
Then,  turning  to  Lomaque,  he  added,  in  a  firmer  voice,  "  It  shall  be 
done !" 


SISTER  ROSE.  137 


CHAPTER  IL 

Two  days  after  the  traveling-carriage  described  by  Lomaque  had 
passed  the  diligence  on  the  road  to  Paris,  Madame  Danville  sat  in 
the  drawing-room  of  an  apartment  in  the  Rue  de  Grenelle,  hand- 
somely dressed  for  driving  out.  After  consulting  a  large  gold 
watch  that  hung  at  her  side,  and  finding  that  it  wanted  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  only  to  two  o'clock,  she  rang  her  hand-bell,  and  said  to 
the  maid-servant  who  answered  the  summons,  "  I  have  five  minutes 
to  spare.  Send  Dubois  here  with  my  chocolate." 

The  old  man  made  his  appearance  with  great  alacrity.  After 
handing  the  cup  of  chocolate  to  his  mistress,  he  ventured  to  use  the 
privilege  of  talking,  to  which  his  long  and  faithful  services  entitled 
him,  and  paid  the  old  lady  a  compliment.  "  I  am  rejoiced  to  see 
madame  looking  so  young  and  in  such  good  spirits  this  morning," 
he  said,  with  a  low  bow  and  a  mild,  deferential  smile. 

"  I  think  I  have  some  reason  for  being  in  good  spirits  on  the  day 
when  my  -son's  marriage-contract  is  to  be  signed,"  said  Madame 
Danville,  with  a  gracious  nod  of  the  head.  "  Ha,  Dubois,  I  shall 
live  yet  to  see  him  with  a  patent  of  nobility  in  his  hand.  The  mob 
has  done  its  worst ;  the  end  of  this  infamous  revolution  is  not  far 
off;  our  order  will  have  its  turn  again  soon,  and  then  who  will  have 
such  a  chance  at  court  as  my  son  ?  He  is  noble  already  through  his 
mother;  he  will  then  be  noble  also  through  his  wife.  Yes,  yes;  let 
that  coarse-mannered,  passionate,  old  soldier-father  of  hers  be  as  un- 
naturally republican  as  he  pleases,  he  has  inherited  a  name  which 
will  help  my  son  to  a  peerage !  The  Vicomte  D'Anville  (D  with  an 
apostrophe,  Dubois,  you  understand  ?),  the  Vicomte  D'Anville — how 
prettily  it  sounds !" 

"  Charmingly,  madame — charmingly.  Ah  !  this  second  marriage 
of  my  young  master's  begins  under  much  better  auspices  than  the 
first."  " 

The  remark  was  an  unfortunate  one.  Madame  Danville  frowned 
portentously,  and  rose  in  a  great  hurry  from  her  chair. 

"  Are  your  wits  failing  you,  you  old  fool  ?"  she  exclaimed,  indig- 
nantly. "  What  do  you  mean  by  referring  to  such  a  subject  as  that, 
on  this  day,  of  all  others  ?  You  are  always  harping  on  those  two 
wretched  people  who  were  guillotined,  as  if  you  thought  I  could 
have  saved  their  lives.  Were  you  not  present  when  my  son  and  I 
met,  after  the  time  of  the  Terror  ?  Did  you  not  hear  my  first  words 
to  him,  when  he  told  me  of  the  catastrophe  ?  Were  they  not, 

6 


1$8  AFTER  DARK. 

'  Charles,  I  love  you ;  but  if  I  thought  you  had  let  those  two  unfor- 
tunates, who  risked  themselves  to  save  me,  die  without  risking  your 
life  in  return  to  save  them,  I  would  break  my  heart  rather  than  ever 
look  at  you  or  speak  to  you  again  !'  Did  I  not  say  that  ?  And  did 
he  not  answer,  '  Mother,  my  life  was  risked  for  them.  I  proved  my 
devotion  by  exposing  myself  to  arrest — I  was  imprisoned  for  my  ex- 
ertions— and  then  I  could  do  no  more !'  Did  you  not  stand  by  and 
hear  him  give  that  answer,  overwhelmed  while  he  spoke  by  gener^ 
ous  emotion  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  he  really  was  imprisoned  in 
the  Temple  ?  Do  you  dare  to  think  that  we  are  to  blame  after  that  ? 
I  owe  you  much,  Dubois,  but  if  you  are  to  take  liberties  with  me — 

"  Oh,  madame !  I  beg  pardon  a  thousand  times.  I  was  thought- 
less— only  thoughtless — " 

"  Silence !  Is  my  coach  at  the  door  ?  Very  well.  Get  ready  to 
accompany  me.  Your  master  will  not  have  time  to  return  here. 
He  will  meet  me,  for  the  signing  of  the  contract,  at  General  Berthe- 
lin's  house  at  two  precisely.  Stop  !  Are  there  many  people  in  the 
street  ?  I  can't  be  stared  at  by  the  mob  as  I  go  to  my  carriage." 

Dubois  hobbled  penitently  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  while 
his  mistress  walked  to  the  door. 

"  The  street  is  almost  empty,  madame,"  he  said.  "  Only  a  man, 
with  a  woman  on  his  arm,  stopping  and  admiring  your  carriage. 
They  seem  like  decent  people,  as  well  as  I  can  tell  without  my  spec- 
tacles. Not  mob,  I  should  say,  madame  ;  certainly  not  mob !" 

"  Very  well.  Attend  me  down  stairs ;  and  bring  some  loose  silver 
with  you,  in  case  those  two  decent  people  should  be  fit  objects  for 
charity.  No  orders  for  the  coachman,  except  that  he  is  to  go  straight 
to  the  general's  house." 

The  party  assembled  at  General  Berthelin's  to  witness  the  signa- 
ture of  the  marriage-contract,  comprised,  besides  the  persons  imme- 
diately interested  in  the  ceremony  of  the  day,  some  young  ladies, 
friends  of  the  bride,  and  a  few  officers,  who  had  been  comrades  of 
her  father's  in  past  years.  The  guests  were  distributed,  rather  un- 
equally, in  two  handsome  apartments  opening  into  each  other — one 
called  in  the  house  the  drawing  -  room,  and  the  other  the  library. 
In  the  drawing-room  were  assembled  the  notary,  with  the  contract 
ready,  the  bride,  the  young  ladies,  and  the  majority  of  General 
Berthelin's  friends.  In  the  library,  the  remainder  of  the  military 
guests  were  amusing  themselves  at  a  billiard-table  until  the  sign- 
ing of  the  contract  should  take  place,  while  Danville  and  his  future 
father-in-law  walked  up  and  down  the  room  together,  the  first  list- 
ening absently,  the  last  talking  with  all  his  accustomed  energy,  and 
with  more  than  his  accustomed  allowance  of  barrack-room  exple- 
tives. The  general  had  taken  it  into  h»  head  to  explain  some  of 
the  clauses  in  the  marriage-contract  to  the  bridegroom,  who,  though 


SISTER  ROSE.  139 

far  better  acquainted  with  their  full  scope  and  meaning  than  his 
father-in-law,  was  obliged  to  listen  for  civility's  sake.  While  the 
old  soldier  was  still  in  the  midst  of  his  long  and  confused  harangue, 
a  clock  struck  on  the  library  mantel-piece. 

"  Two  o'clock !"  exclaimed  Danville,  glad  of  any  pretext  for  in- 
terrupting the  talk  about  the  contract.  "  Two  o'clock ;  and  my 
mother  not  here  yet!  What  can  be  delaying  her?" 

"  Nothing,"  cried  the  general.  "  When  did  you  ever  know  a 
woman  punctual,  my  lad  ?  If  we  wait  for  your  mother — and  she's 
such  a  rabid  aristocrat  that  she  would  never  forgive  us  for  not 
waiting  —  we  sha'n't  sign  the  contract  yet  this  half- hour.  Never 
mind !  let's  go  on  with  what  we  were  talking  about.  Where  the 
devil  was  I  when  that  cursed  clock  struck  and  interrupted  us? 
Now  then,  Black  Eyes,  what's  the  matter?" 

This  last  question  was  addressed  to  Mademoiselle  Berthelin,  who 
at  that  moment  hastily  entered  the  library  from  the  drawing-room. 
She  was  a  tall  and  rather  masculine-looking  girl,  with  superb  black 
ryes,  dark  hair  growing  low  on  her  forehead,  and  something  of  her 
father's  decision  and  bluntness  in  her  manner  of  speaking. 

"A  stranger  in  the  other  room,  papa,  who  wants  to  see  you.  I 
suppose  the  servants  showed  him  up  stairs,  thinking  he  was  one  of 
the  guests.  Ought  I  to  have  had  him  shown  down  again  ?" 

"A  nice  question  !  How  should  I  know?  Wait  till  I  have  seen 
him,  miss,  and  then  I'll  tell  you."  With  these  words  the  general 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

His  daughter  would  have  followed  him,  but  Danville  caught  her 
by  the  hand. 

"  Can  you  be  hard-hearted  enough  to  leave  me  here  alone  ?"  he 
asked. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  all  my  bosom  friends  in  the  next  room, 
you  selfish  man,  if  I  stop  here  with  you?"  retorted  mademoiselle, 
struggling  to  free  herself. 

"  Call  them  in  here,"  said  Danville,  gayly,  making  himself  master 
of  her  other  hand. 

She  laughed,  and  drew  him  away  toward  the  drawing-room. 

"  Come,"  she  cried,  "  and  let  all  the  ladies  see  what  a  tyrant  I  am 
going  to  marry.  Come,  and  show  them  what  an  obstinate,  unrea- 
sonable, wearisome — 

Her  voice  suddenly  failed  her;  she  shuddered,  and  turned  faint. 
Danville's  hand  had  in  one  instant  grown  cold  as  death  in  hers; 
the  momentary  touch  of  his  fingers,  as  she  felt  their  grasp  loosen, 
struck  some  mysterious  chill  through  her  from  head  to  foot.  She 
glanced  round  at  him  affrightedly,  and  saw  his  eyes  looking  straight 
into  the  (irawintr-room.  They  were  fixed  in  a  strange,  unwavering, 
awful  stare,  while,  from  the  rest  of  his  face,  all  expression,  all  char- 


140  AFTER    DARK. 

acter,  all  recognizao.e  play  and  movement  of  feature,  had  utterly 
gone.  It  was  a  breathless,  lifeless  mask — a  white  blank.  With  a 
cry  of  terror,  she  looked  where  he  seemed  to  be  looking ;  and  could 
see  nothing  but  the  stranger  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Before  she  could  ask  a  question  —  before  she  could  speak 
even  a  single  word — her  father  came  to  her,  caught  Danville  by  the 
arm,  and  pushed  her  roughly  back  into  the  library. 

"  Go  there,  and  take  the  women  with  you,"  he  said,  in  a  quick, 
fierce  whisper.  "  Into  the  library !"  he  continued,  turning  to  the 
ladies,  and  raising  his  voice.  "  Into  the  library,  all  of  you,  along 
with  my  daughter." 

The  women,  terrified  by  his  manner,  obeyed  him  in  the  greatest 
confusion.  As  they  hurried  past  him  into  the  library,  he  signed  to 
the  notary  to  follow ;  and  then  closed  the  door  of  communication 
between  the  two  rooms. 

"  Stop  where  you  are !"  he  cried,  addressing  the  old  officers,  who 
had  risen  from  their  chairs.  "  Stay,  I  insist  on  it !  Whatever  hap- 
pens, Jacques  Berthelin  has  done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  the 
presence  of  his  old  friends  and  companions.  You  have  seen  the  be- 
ginning, now  stay  and  see  the  end." 

While  he  spoke,  he  walked  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  He  had 
never  quitted  his  hold  of  Danville's  arm ;  step  by  step  they  advanced 
together  to  the  place  where  Trudaine  was  standing. 

"  You  have  come  into  my  house,  and  asked  me  for  my  daughter 
in  marriage — and  I  have  given  her  to  you,"  said  the  general,  ad- 
dressing Danville,  quietly.  "  You  told  me  that  your  first  wife  and 
her  brother  were  guillotined  three  years  ago  in  the  time  of  the  Ter- 
ror— and  I  believed  you.  Now  look  at  that  man — look  him  straight 
in  the  face.  He  has  announced  himself  to  me  as  the  brother  of  your 
wife,  and  he  asserts  that  his  sister  is  alive  at  this  moment.  One  of 
you  two  has  deceived  me.  Which  is  it  ?" 

Danville  tried  to  speak,  but  no  sound  passed  his  lips ;  tried  to 
wrench  his  arm  from  the  grasp  that  was  on  it,  but  could  not  stir 
the  old  soldier's  steady  hand. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  are  you  a  coward  ?  Can't  you  look  him  in  the 
face  ?"  asked  the  general,  tightening  his  hold  sternly. 

"  Stop !  stop  !"  interposed  one  of  the  old  officers,  coming  forward. 
"  Give  him  time.  This  may  be  a  case  of  strange  accidental  resem- 
blance, which  would  be  enough,  under  the  circumstances,  to  dis- 
compose any  man.  You  will  excuse  me,  citizen,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  Trudaine ;  "  but  you  are  a  stranger.  You  have  given  us 
no  proof  of  your  identity." 

"  There  is  the  proof,"  said  Trudaine,  pointing  to  Danville's  face. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  pursued  the  other ;  "  he  looks  pale  and  startled 
enough,  certainly.  But  I  say  again,  let  us  not  be  too  hasty ;  there 


SISTER  BOSE.  141 

are  strange  cases  on  record  of  accidental  resemblances,  and  this  may 
be  one  of  them !" 

As  he  repeated  those  words,  Danville  looked  at  Kim  with  a  faint, 
(ringing  gratitude,  stealing  slowly  over  the  blank  terror  of  his  face. 
Hi-  bowed  his  head,  murmured  something,  and  gesticulated  con- 
t'usi -dly  with  the  hand  that  he  was  free  to  use. 

"Look!"  cried  the  old  officer;  "look,  Berthelin;  he  denies  the 
man's  identity." 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?"  said  the  general,  appealing  to  Trudaine. 
"  Have  you  proofs  to  confute  him  ?  If  you  have,  produce  them  in- 
-tantly." 

Before  the  answer  could  be  given,  the  door  leading  into  the 
drawing-room  from  the  staircase  was  violently  flung  open,  and  Ma- 
•  lame  Danville — her  hair  in  disorder,  her  face  in  its  colorless  terror 
looking  like  the  very  counterpart  of  her  son's  —  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  with  the  old  man  Dubois  and  a  group  of  amazed  and 
startled  servants  behind  her. 

."•  For  God's  sake,  don't  sign !  for  God's  sake,  come  away !"  she 
cried.  "  I  have  seen  your  wife — in  the  spirit,  or  in  the  flesh,  I  know 
not  which  —  but  I  have  seen  her.  Charles!  Charles!  as  true  as 
Heaven  is  above  us,  I  have  seen  your  wife  !" 

"  You  have  seen  her  in  the  flesh,  living  and  breathing  as  you  see 
her  brother  yonder,"  said  a  firm,  quiet  voice,  from  among  the  serv- 
ants on  the  landing  outside. 

u  Let  that  man  enter,  whoever  he  is  !"  cried  the  general. 

Lomaque  passed  Madame  Danville  on  the  threshold.  She  trem- 
bled as  he  brushed  by  her;  then,  supporting  herself  by  the  wall,  fol- 
lowed him  a  few  paces  into  the  room.  She  looked  first  at  her  son — 
after  that,  at  Trudaine — after  that  back  again  at  her  son.  Some- 
thing in  her  presence  silenced  every  one.  There  fell  a  sudden  still- 
ness over  all  the  assembly — a  stillness  so  deep,  that  the  eager,  fright- 
ened whispering,  and  sharp  rustling  of  dresses  among  the  women  in 
the  library,  became  audible  from  the  other  side  of  the  closed  door. 

"  Charles,"  she  said,  slowly  advancing ;  "  why  do  you  look  — 
She  stopped,  and  fixed  her  eyes  again  on  her  son  more  earnestly 
than  before  ;  then  turned  them  suddenly  on  Trudaine.  "  You  are 
looking  at  my  son,  sir,"  she  said,  "and  I  see  contempt  in  your  face. 
By  what  right  do  you  insult  a  man  whose  grateful  sense  of  his 
mother's  obligations  to  you  made  him  risk  his  life  for  the  saving 
of  yours  and  your  sister's?  By  what  right  have  you  kept  the  es- 
cape of  my  son's  wife  from  death  by  the  guillotine — an  escape  which, 
for  all  I  know  to  the  contrary,  his  generous  exertions  were  instru- 
mental in  effecting — a  secret  from  my  son  ?  By  what  right,  I  de- 
mand to  know,  has  your  treacherous  secrecy  placed  us  in  such  a 
position  as  we  now  stand  in  before  the  master  of  this  house?" 


142  AFTER   DARK. 

An  expression  of  sorrow  and  pity  passed  over  Trudaine's  face 
while  she  spoke.  He  retired  a  few  steps,  and  gave  her  no  answer. 
The  general  looked  at  him  with  eager  curiosity,  and,  dropping  his 
hold  of  Danville's  arm,  seemed  about  to  speak ;  but  Lomaque  step- 
ped forward  at  the  same  time,  and  held  up  his  hand  to  claim  at- 
tention. 

"  I  think  I  shall  express  the  wishes  of  Citizen  Trudaine,"  he  said, 
addressing  Madame  Danville,  "if  I  recommend  this  lady  not  to 
press  for  too  public  an  answer  to  her  questions." 

"  Pray  who  are  you,  sir,  who  take  it  on  yourself  to  advise  me  ?" 
she  retorted,  haughtily.  "  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you,  except  that 
I  repeat  those  questions,  and  that  I  insist  on  their  being  answered." 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?"  asked  the  general,  addressing  Trudaine,  and 
pointing  to  Lomaque. 

"A  man  unworthy  of  credit,"  cried  Danville,  speaking  audibly 
for  the  first  time,  and  darting  a  look  of  deadly  hatred  at  Lomaque. 
"  An  agent  of  police  under  Robespierre." 

"And  in  that  capacity  capable  of  answering  questions  which  re- 
fer to  the  transactions  of  Robespierre's  tribunals,"  remarked  the  ex- 
chief  agent,  with  his  old  official  self-possession. 

"True!"  exclaimed  the  general;  "  the  man  is  right  —  let  him  be 
heard." 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it,"  said  Lomaque,  looking  at  Trudaine ; 
"  leave  it  to  me — it  is  fittest  that  I  should  speak.  I  was  present," 
he  continued,  in  a  louder  voice,  "  at  the  trial  of  Citizen  Trudaine 
and  his  sister.  They  were  brought  to  the  bar  through  the  denuncia- 
tion of  Citizen  Danville.  Till  the  confession  of  the  male  prisoner 
exposed  the  fact,  I  can  answer  for  Danville's  not  being  aware  of  the 
real  nature  of  the  offenses  charged  against  Trudaine  and  his  sister. 
When  it  became  known  that  they  had  been  secretly  helping  this 
lady  to  escape  from  France,  and  when  Danville's  own  head  was 
consequently  in  danger,  I  myself  heard  him  save  it  by  a  false  as- 
sertion that  he  had  been  aware  of  Trudaine's  conspiracy  from  the 
first—" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  interrupted  the  general,  "that  he  pro- 
claimed himself  in  open  court  as  having  knowingly  denounced  the 
man  who  was  on  trial  for  saving  his  mother  ?" 

"  I  do,"  answered  Lomaque.  (A  murmur  of  horror  and  indigna- 
tion rose  from  all  the  strangers  present  at  that  reply.)  "  The  re- 
ports of  the  Tribunal  are  existing  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say," 
he  went  on.  "As  to  the  escape  of  Citizen  Trudaine  and  the  wife 
of  Danville  from  the  guillotine,  it  was  the  work  of  political  circum- 
stances, which  there  are  persons  living  to  speak  to  if  necessary; 
and  of  a  little  stratagem  of  mine,  which  need  not  be  referred  to 
now.  And,  last,  with  reference  to  the  concealment  which  followed 


SISTER  ROSE.  143 

the  escape,  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  it  was  abandoned  the  moment 
we  knew  of  what  was  going  on  here;  and  that  it  was  only  per- 
severed in  up  to  this  time,  as  a  natural  measure  of  precaution  on  the 
part  of  Citizen  Trudaine.  From  a  similar  motive  we  now  abstain 
from  exposing  his  sister  to  the  shock  and  the  peril  of  being  present 
here.  What  man  with  an  atom  of  feeling  would  risk  letting  her 
even  look  again  on  such  a  husband  as  that  ?" 

He  glanced  round  him,  and  pointed  to  Danville,  as  he  put  the 
question.  Before  a  word  could  be  spoken  by  any  one  else  io  *he 
room,  a  low  wailing  cry  of  "  My  mistress  !  my  dear,  dear  mistress !" 
directed  all  eyes  first  on  the  old  man  Dubois,  then  on  Madame 
Danville. 

She  had  been  leaning  against  the  wall,  before  Lomaque  began  to 
speak ;  but  she  stood  perfectly  upright  now.  She  neither  spoke 
nor  moved.  Not  one  of  the  light  gaudy  ribbons  flaunting  on  her 
disordered  head-dress  so  much  as  trembled.  The  old  servant  Du- 
bois was  crouched  on  his  knees  at  her  side,  kissing  her  cold  right 
hand,  chafing  it  in  his,  reiterating  his  faint,  mournful  cry,  "  Oh !  my 
mistress  !  my  dear,  dear  mistress !"  but  she  did  not  appear  to  know 
that  he  was  near  her.  It  was  only  when  her  son  advanced  a  step  or 
two  toward  her  that  she  seemed  to  awaken  suddenly  from  that  death- 
trance  of  mental  pain.  Then  she  slowly  raised  the  hand  that  was 
free,  and  waved  him  back  from  her.  He  stopped  in  obedience  to 
the  gesture,  and  endeavored  to  speak.  She  waved  her  hand  again, 
and  the  deathly  stillness  of  her  face  began  to  grow  troubled.  Her 
lips  moved  a  little — she  spoke. 

"  Oblige  me,  sir,  for  the  last  time,  by  keeping  silence.  You  and 
I  have  henceforth  nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  I  am  the  daughter 
of  a  race  of  nobles,  and  the  widow  of  a  man  of  honor.  You  are  a 
traitor  and  a  false  witness  —  a  thing  from  which  all  true  men  and 
true  women  turn  with  contempt.  I  renounce  you  !  Publicly,  in  the 
presence  of  these  gentlemen,  I  say  it — I  have  no  son." 

She  turned  her  back  on  him ;  and,  bowing  to  the  other  persons 
in  the  room  with  the  old  formal  courtesy  of  by-gone  times,  walked 
slowly  and  steadily  to  the  door.  Stopping  there,  she  looked  back ; 
and  then  the  artificial  courage  of  the  moment  failed  her.  With  a 
faint,  suppressed  cry  she  clutched  at  the  hand  of  the  old  servant, 
who  still  kept  faithfully  at  her  side ;  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and 
her  head  sank  on  his  shoulder. 

"Help  him!"  cried  the  general  to  the  servants  near  the  door. 
"  Help  him  to  take  her  into  the  next  room !" 

The  old  man  looked  up  suspiciously  from  his  mistress  to  the  per- 
sons who  were  assisting  him  to  support  her.  With  a  strange,  sud- 
den jealousy  he  shook  his  hand  at  them.  "  Home,"  he  cried ;  "  she 
shall  go  home,  and  I  will  take  care  of  her.  Away !  you  there — no- 


144  AFTER  DARK. 

body  holds  her  head  but  Dubois.  Down  stairs  !  down  stairs  to  her 
carriage !  She  has  nobody  but  me  now,  and  I  say  that  she  shall  be 
taken  home." 

As  the  door  closed,  General  Berthelin  approached  Trudaine,  who 
had  stood  silent  and  apart,  from  the  time  when  Lomaque  first  ap- 
peared in  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  wish  to  ask  your  pardon,"  said  the  old  soldier,  "  because  I 
have  wronged  you  by  a  moment  of  unjust  suspicion.  For  my 
daughter's  sake,  I  bitterly  regret  that  we  did  not  see  each  other 
long  ago ;  but  I  thank  you,  nevertheless,  for  coming  here,  even  at 
the  eleventh  hour." 

While  he  was  speaking,  one  of  his  friends  came  up,  and  touching 
him  on  the  shoulder,  said, 

"  Berthelin,  is  that  scoundrel  to  be  allowed  to  go  ?" 

The  general  turned  on  his  heel  directly,  and  beckoned  contempt- 
uously to  Danville  to  follow  him  to  the  door.  "When  they  were  well 
out  of  ear-shot,  he  spoke  these  words : 

"  You  have  been  exposed  as  a  villain  by  your  brother-in-law,  and 
renounced  as  a  liar  by  your  mother.  They  have  done  their  duty 
by  you,  and  now  it  only  remains  for  me  to  do  mine.  When  a  man 
enters  the  house  of  another  under  false  pretenses,  and  compromises 
the  reputation  of  his  daughter,  we  old  army  men  have  a  very  expe- 
ditious way  of  making  him  answer  for  it.  It  is  just  three  o'clock 
now ;  at  five  you  will  find  me  and  one  of  my  friends — " 

He  stopped,  and  looked  round  cautiously  —  then  whispered  the 
rest  in  Danville's  ear  —  threw  open  the  door,  and  pointed  down 
stairs. 

"  Our  work  here  is  done,"  said  Lomaque,  laying  his  hand  on  Tru- 
daine's  arm.  "  Let  us  give  Danville  time  to  get  clear  of  the  house, 
and  then  leave  it  too." 

"  My  sister !  where  is  she  ?"  asked  Trudaine,  eagerly. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  about  her.  I  will  tell  you  more  when  we 
get  out." 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  I  know,"  said  General  Berthelin,  speaking 
to  all  the  persons  present,  with  his  hand  on  the  library  door,  "  if  I 
leave  you.  I  have  bad  news  to  break  to  my  daughter,  and  private 
business  after  that  to  settle  with  a  friend." 

He  saluted  the  company,  with  his  usual  bluff  nod  of  the  head, 
and  entered  the  library.  A  few  minutes  afterward,  Trudaine  and 
Lomaque  left  the  house. 

"  You  will  find  your  sister  waiting  for  you  in  our  apartment  at 
the  hotel,"  said  the  latter.  "  She  knows  nothing,  absolutely  noth- 
ing, of  what  has  passed." 

"  But  the  recognition  ?"  asked  Trudaine,  amazedly.  "  His  mother 
saw  her.  Surely  she — " 


SISTER  ROSE.  145 

"I  managed  it  so  that  she  should  be  seen,  and  should  not  see. 
Our  former  experience  of  Danville  suggested  to  me  the  propriety 
of  making  the  experiment,  and  my  old  police-office  practice  came  in 
useful  in  carrying  it  out.  I  saw  the  carriage  standing  at  the  door, 
and  waited  till  the  old  lady  came  down.  I  walked  your  sister  away 
as  she  got  in,  and  walked  her  back  again  past  the  window  as  the 
carriage  drove  off.  A  moment  did  it,  and  it  turned  out  as  useful  as 
I  thought  it  would.  Enough  of  that !  Go  back  now  to  your  sister. 
Keep  indoors  till  the  night  mail  starts  for  Rouen.  I  have  had  two 
places  token  for  you  on  speculation.  Go !  resume  possession  of  your 
old  house,  and  leave  me  here  to  transact  the  business  which  my  em- 
ployer has  intrusted  to  me,  and  to  see  how  matters  end  with  Dan- 
ville and  his  mother.  I  will  make  time  somehow  to  come  and  bid 
you  good-bye  at  Rouen,  though  it  should  be  only  for  a  single  day. 
Bah !  no  thanks.  Give  us  your  hand.  I  was  ashamed  to  take  it 
eight  years  ago — I  can  give  it  a  hearty  shake  now !  There  is  your 
way ;  here  is  mine.  Leave  me  to  my  business  in  silks  and  satins, 
and  go  you  back  to  your  sister,  and  help  her  to  pack  up  for  the 
night  mail." 


CHAPTER  IH. 

THREE  more  days  have  passed.  It  is  evening.  Rose,  Trudaine, 
and  Lomaque  are  seated  together  on  the  bench  that  overlooks  the 
windings  of  the  Seine.  The  old  familiar  scene  spreads  before  them, 
beautiful  as  ever — unchanged,  as  if  it  was  but  yesterday  since  they 
had  all  looked  on  it  for  the  last  time. 

They  talk  together  seriously  and  in  low  voices.  The  same  rec- 
ollections fill  their  hearts — recollections  which  they  refrain  from  ac- 
knowledging, but  the  influence  of  which  each  knows  by  instinct 
that  the  other  partakes.  Sometimes  one  leads  the  conversation, 
sometimes  another;  but  whoever  speaks,  the  topic  chosen  is  always, 
as  if  by  common  consent,  a  topic  connected  with  the  future. 

The  evening  darkens  in,  and  Rose  is  the  first  to  rise  from  the 
bench.  A  secret  look  of  intelligence  passes  between  her  and  her 
brother,  and  then  she  speaks  to  Lomaque. 

"  Will  you  follow  me  into  the  house,"  she  asks, "  with  as  little  de- 
lay as  possible  ?  I  have  something  that  I  very  much  wish  to  show 
you." 

Her  brother  waits  till  she  is  out  of  hearing,  then  inquires  anx- 
iously what  has  happened  at  Paris  since  the  night  when  he  and 
Rose  left  it. 

"  Your  sister  is  free,"  Lomaque  answers. 

"  The  duel  took  place,  then  ?" 

6* 


146  AFTER  DARK. 

"  The  same  day.  They  were  both  to  fire  together.  The  second 
of  his  adversary  asserts  that  he  was  paralyzed  with  terror;  his  own 
second  declares  that  he  was  resolved,  however  he  might  have  lived, 
to  confront  death  courageously  by  offering  his  life  at  the  first  fire  to 
the  man  whom  he  had  injured.  Which  account  is  true,  I  know  not. 
It  is  only  certain  that  he  did  not  discharge  his  pistol,  that  he  fell  by 
his  antagonist's  first  bullet,  and  that  he  never  spoke  afterward." 

"And  his  mother?" 

"  It  is  hard  to  gain  information.  Her  doors  are  closed ;  the  old 
servant  guards  her  with  jealous  care.  A  medical  man  is  in  con- 
stant attendance,  and  there  are  reports  in  the  house  that  the  illness 
from  which  she  is  suffering  affects  her  mind  more  than  her  body.  I 
could  ascertain  no  more." 

After  that  answer  they  both  remain  silent  for  a  little  while,  then 
rise  from  the  bench,  and  walk  toward  the  house. 

"  Have  you  thought  yet  about  preparing  your  sister  to  hear  of  all 
that  has  happened  ?"  Lomaque  asks,  as  he  sees  the  lamp-light  glim- 
mering in  the  parlor  window. 

"  I  shall  wait  to  prepare  her  till  we  are  settled  again  here — till  the 
first  holiday  pleasure  of  our  return  has  worn  off,  and  the  quiet  real- 
ities of  our  every-day  life  of  old  have  resumed  their  way,"  answers 
Trudaine. 

They  enter  the  house.  Rose  beckons  to  Lomaque  to  sit  down 
near  her,  and  places  pen  and  ink  and  an  open  letter  before  him. 

"  I  have  a  last  favor  to  ask  of  you,"  she  says,  smiling. 

"  I  hope  it  will  not  take  long  to  grant,"  he  rejoins ;  "  for  I  have 
only  to-night  to  be  with  you.  To-morrqw  morning,  before  you  are 
up,  I  must  be  on  my  way  back  to  Chalons." 

"  Will  you  sign  that  letter  ?"  she  continues,  still  smiling,  "  and 
then  give  it  to  me  to  send  to  the  post  ?  It  was  dictated  by  Louis, 
and  written  by  me,  and  it  will  be  quite  complete,  if  you  will  put 
your  name  at  the  end  of  it." 

"  I  suppose  I  may  read  it  ?" 

She  nods,  and  Lomaque  reads  these  lines : 

"CITIZEN,— I  beg  respectfully  to  apprise  you  that  the  commis- 
sion you  intrusted  to  me  at  Paris  has  been  performed. 

"  I  have  also  to  beg  that  you  will  accept  my  resignation  of  the 
place  I  hold  in  yonr  counting-house.  The  kindness  shown  me  by 
you  and  your  brother  before  you,  emboldens  me  to  hope  that  you 
will  learn  with  pleasure  the  motive  of  my  withdrawal.  Two  friends 
of  mine,  who  consider  that  they  are  under  some  obligations  to  me, 
are  anxious  that  I  should  pass  the  rest  of  my  days  in  the  quiet  and 
protection  of  their  home.  Troubles  of  former  years  have  knit  us 
together  as  closely  as  if  we  were  all  three  members  of  one  family. 


SISTER  ROSE.  147 

I  need  the  repose  of  a  happy  fireside  as  much  as  any  man,  after  the 
life  I  have  led ;  and  my  friends  assure  me  so  earnestly  that  their 
whole  hearts  are  set  on  establishing  the  old  man's  easy-chair  by 
their  hearth,  that  I  can  not  summon  resolution  enough  to  turn  my 
back  on  them  and  their  offer. 

"Accept,  then,  I  beg  of  you,  the  resignation  which  this  letter  con- 
tains, and  with  it  the  assurance  of  my  sincere  gratitude  and  respect 

"To  Citizen  Clairfait,  Silk-mercer, 
"  Chaloiis-sur-Marne." 

After  reading  these  lines,  Lomaque  turned  round  to  Trudaine  and 
attempted  to  speak ;  but  the  words  would  not  come  at  command. 
He  looked  up  at  Rose,  and  tried  to  smile ;  but  his  lip  only  trembled. 
She  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink,  and  placed  it  in  his  hand.  He  bent 
his  head  down  quickly  over  the  paper,  so  that  she  could  not  see  his 
face  ;  but  still  he  did  not  write  his  name.  She  put  her  hand  caress- 
ingly on  his  shoulder,  and  whispered  to  him  : 

"  Come,  come,  humor  '  Sister  Rose.'  She  must  have  her  own  way 
now  she  is  back  again  at  home." 

He  did  not  answer — his  head  sank  lower — he  hesitated  for  an  in- 
stant— then  signed  his  name  in  faint,  trembling  characters,  at  the 
end  of  the  letter. 

She  drew  it  away  from  him  gently.  A  few  tear-drops  lay  on  the 
•paper.  As  she  dried  them  with  her  handkerchief,  she  looked  at  her 
brother. 

"  They  are  the  last  he  shall  ever  shed,  Louis ;  you  and  I  will  take 
care  of  that  1" 


148  AFTER   DARK. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  THIRD  STORY. 

I  HAVE  now  related  all  that  is  eventful  in  the  history  of  SISTER 
ROSE.  To  the  last  the  three  friends  dwelt  together  happily  in  the 
cottage  on  the  river  bank.  Mademoiselle  Clairfait  was  fortunate 
enough  to  know  them,  before  Death  entered  the  little  household 
and  took  away,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  the  eldest  of  its  members. 
She  describes  Lomaque,  in  her  quaint  foreign  English,  as  "  a  brave, 
big  heart ;"  generous,  affectionate,  and  admirably  free  from  the  small 
obstinacies  and  prejudices  of  old  age,  except  on  one  point :  he  could 
never  be  induced  to  take  his  coflfee,  of  an  evening,  from  any  other 
hand  than  the  hand  of  Sister  Rose. 

I  linger  over  these  final  particulars  with  a  strange  unwillingness 
to  separate  myself  from  them,  and  give  my  mind  to  other  thoughts. 
Perhaps  the  persons  and  events  that  have  occupied  my  attention 
for  so  many  nights  past  have  some  peculiar  interest  for  me  that  I 
can  not  analyze.  Perhaps  the  labor  and  time  which  this  story  has 
cost  me  have  especially  endeared  it  to  my  sympathies,  now  that  I 
have  succeeded  in  completing  it.  However  that  may  be,  I  have 
need  of  some  resolution  to  part  at  last  with  Sister  Rose,  and  return, 
in  the  interests  of  my  next  and  Fourth  Story,  to  English  ground. 

I  have  experienced  so  much  difficulty,  let  me  add,  in  deciding  on 
the  choice  of  a  new  narrative  out  of  my  collection,  that  my  wife  has 
lost  all  patience,  and  has  undertaken,  on  her  own  responsibility,  to 
relieve  me  of  my  unreasonable  perplexities.  By  her  advice — given, 
as  usual,  without  a  moment's  hesitation — I  can  not  do  better  than 
tell  the  story  of 

THE  LADY  OF  GLENWITH  GRANGE. 


PBOLOGUB   TO   THE   FOURTH   STOEY.  149 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  FOURTH  STORY. 

MY  practice  in  the  art  of  portrait-painting,  if  it  has  done  nothing 
else,  has  at  least  fitted  me  to  turn  my  talents  (such  as  they  are)  to  a 
great  variety  of  uses.  I  have  not  only  taken  the  likenesses  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  but  have  also  extended  the  range  of  my  brush, 
under  stress  of  circumstances,  to  horses,  dogs,  houses,  and  in  one 
case  even  to  a  bull — the  terror  and  glory  of  his  parish,  and  the  most 
truculent  sitter  I  ever  had.  The  beast  was  appropriately  named 
"  Thunder  and  Lightning,"  and  was  the  property  of  a  gentleman- 
farmer  named  Garthwaite,  a  distant  connection  of  my  wife's  family. 

How  it  was  that  I  escaped  being  gored  to  death  before  I  had  fin- 
ished my  picture  is  more  than  I  can  explain  to  this  day.  "  Thunder 
and  Lightning  "  resented  the  very  sight  of  me  and  my  color-box,  as 
if  he  viewed  the  taking  of  his  likeness  in  the  light  of  a  personal  in- 
sult. It  required  two  men  to  coax  him,  while  a  third  held  him  by 
a  ring  in  his  nostrils,  before  I  could  venture  on  beginning  to  work. 
Even  then  he  always  lashed  his  tail,  and  jerked  his  huge  head,  and 
rolled  his  fiery  eyes  with  a  devouring  anxiety  to  have  me  on  his 
horns  for  daring  to  sit  down  quietly  and  look  at  him.  Never,  I  can 
honestly  say,  did  I  feel  more  heartily  grateful  for  the  blessings  of 
soundness  of  limb  and  wholeness  of  skin,  than  when  I  had  completed 
the  picture  of  the  bull ! 

One  morning,  when  I  had  but  little  more  than  half  done  my  un- 
welcome task,  my  friend  and  I  were  met  on  our  way  to  the  bull's 
stable  by  the  farm  bailiff,  who  informed  us  gravely  that  "  Thunder 
and  Lightning  "  was  just  then  in  such  an  especially  surly  state  of 
temper  as  to  render  it  quite  unsafe  for  me  to  think  of  painting  him. 
I  looked  inquiringly  at  Mr.  Garthwaite,  who  smiled  with  an  air  of 
comic  resignation,  and  said,  "  Very  well,  then,  we  have  nothing  for 
it  but  to  wait  till  to-morrow.  What  do  you  say  to  a  morning's  fish- 
ing, Mr.  Kerby,  now  that  my  bull's  bad  temper  has  given  us  a  holi- 
day?" 

I  replied,  with  perfect  truth,  that  I  knew  nothing  about  fishing. 
But  Mr.  Garthwaite,  who  was  as  ardent  an  angler  in  his  way  as 
Izaak  Walton  himself,  was  not  to  be  appeased  even  by  the  best  of 
excuses.  "  It  is  never  too  late  to  learn,"  cried  he.  "  I  will  make  a 
fisherman  of  you  in  no  time,  if  you  will  only  attend  to  my  direc- 
tions." It  was  impossible  for  me  to  make  any  more  apologies,  with- 
out the  risk  of  appearing  discourteous.  So  I  thanked  my  host  for 


150  AFTER   DARK. 

his  friendly  intentions,  and,  with  some  secret  misgivings,  accepted 
the  first  fishing-rod  that  he  put  into  my  hands. 

"We  shall  soon  get  there,"  said  Mr.  Garthwaite.  "  I  am  taking 
you  to  the  best  mill-stream  in  the  neighborhood."  It  was  all  one 
to  me  whether  we  got  there  soon  or  late,  and  whether  the  stream 
was  good  or  bad.  However,  I  did  my  best  to  conceal  my  unsports- 
man-like  apathy ;  and  tried  to  look  quite  happy  and  very  impatient 
to  begin,  as  we  drew  near  to  the  mill,  and  heard  louder  and  louder 
the  gushing  of  many  waters  all  around  it. 

Leading  the  way  immediately  to  a  place  beneath  the  falling 
stream,  where  there  was  a  deep,  eddying  pool,  Mr.  Garthwaite  bait- 
ed and  threw  in  his  line  before  I  had  fixed  the  joints  of  my  fishing- 
rod.  This  first  difficulty  overcome,  I  involuntarily  plunged  into  some 
excellent,  but  rather  embarrassing,  sport  with  my  line  and  hook.  I 
caught  every  one  of  my  garments,  from  head  to  foot ;  I  angled  for 
my  own  clothes  with  the  dexterity  and  success  of  Izaak  Walton  him- 
self. I  caught  my  hat,  my  jacket,  my  waistcoat,  my  trowsers,  my  fin- 
gers, and  my  thumbs  —  some  devil  possessed  my  hook ;  some  more 
than  eel-like  vitality  twirled  and  twisted  in  every  inch  of  my  line. 
By  the  time  my  host  arrived  to  assist  me,  I  had  attached  myself  to 
my  fishing  -  rod,  apparently  for  life.  All  difficulties  yielded,  how- 
ever, to  his  patience  and  skill ;  my  hook  was  baited  for  me,  and 
thrown  in ;  my  rod  was  put  into  my  hand ;  my  friend  went  back  to 
his  place ;  and  we  began  at  last  to  angle  in  earnest. 

We  certainly  caught  a  few  fish  (in  my  case,  I  mean,  of  course,  that 
the  fish  caught  themselves) ;  but  they  were  scanty  in  number  and 
light  in  weight.  Whether  it  was  the  presence  of  the  miller's  fore- 
man— a  gloomy  personage,  who  stood  staring  disastrously  upon  us 
from  a  little  flower-garden  on  the  opposite  bank — that  cast  an  ad- 
verse influence  over  our  sport;  or  whether  my  want  of  faith  and 
earnestness  as  an  angler  acted  retributively  on  my  companion  as  well 
as  myself,  I  know  not ;  but  it  is  certain  that  he  got  almost  as  little 
reward  for  his  skill  as  I  got  for  my  patience.  After  nearly  two 
hours  of  intense  expectation  on  my  part,  and  intense  angling  on  his, 
Mr.  Garthwaite  jerked  his  line  out  of  the  water  in  a  rage,  and  bade 
me  follow  him  to  another  place,  declaring  that  the  stream  must  have 
been  netted  by  poachers  in  the  night,  who  had  taken  all  the  large 
fish  away  with  them,  and  had  thrown  in  the  small  ones  to  grow  un- 
til their  next  visit.  We  moved  away,  farther  down  the  bank,  leav- 
ing the  imperturbable  foreman  still  in  the  flower-garden,  staring  at 
us  speechlessly  on  our  departure,  exactly  as  he  had  already  stared  at 
us  on  our  approach. 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  said  Mr.  Garthwaite  suddenly,  after  we  had 
walked  some  distance  in  silence  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  "  I  have 
an  idea.  Now  we  are  out  for  a  day's  angling,  we  won't  be  balked. 


PROLOGUE   TO  THE    FOURTH   STORY.  151 

Instead  of  trying  the  water  here  again,  we  will  go  where  I  know,  by 
experience,  that  the  fishing  i8  excellent.  And  what  is  more,  you 
shall  be  introduced  to  a  lady  whose  appearance  is  sure  to  interest 
you,  and  whose  history,  I  can  tell  you  beforehand,  is  a  very  remark- 
able one." 

"  Indeed,"  I  said.    "  May  I  ask  in  what  way  ?" 

"  She  is  connected,"  answered  Mr.  Garthwaite,  "  with  an  extraor- 
dinary story,  which  relates  to  a  family  once  settled  in  an  old  house 
in  this  neighborhood.  Her  name  is  Miss  Welwyn;  but  she  is  less 
formally  known  among  the  poor  people  about  here,  who  love  her 
dearly,  and  honor  her  almost  superstitiously,  as  the  Lady  of  Glen- 
with  Grange.  Wait  till  you  have  seen  her  before  you  ask  me  to  say 
any  thing  more.  She  lives  in  the  strictest  retirement;  I  am  almost 
the  only  visitor  who  is  admitted.  Don't  say  you  had  rather  not  go 
in.  Any  friend  of  mine  will  be  welcome  at  the  Grange  (the  scene 
of  the  story,  remember),  for  my  sake — the  more  especially  because  I 
have  never  abused  my  privilege  of  introduction.  The  place  is  not 
above  two  miles  from  here,  and  the  stream  (which  we  call,  in  our 
county  dialect,  Glenwith  Beck)  runs  through  the  ground." 

As  we  walked  on,  Mr.  Garthwaite's  manner  altered.  He  became 
unusually  silent  and  thoughtful.  The  mention  of  Miss  Welwyn's 
name  had  evidently  called  up  some  recollections  which  were  not  in 
harmony  with  his  every-day  mood.  Feeling  that  to  talk  to  him  on 
any  indifferent  subject  would  be  only  to  interrupt  his  thoughts  to  no 
purpose,  I  walked  by  his  side  in  perfect  silence,  looking  out  already 
with  some  curiosity  and  impatience  for  a  first  view  of  Glenwith 
Grange.  We  stopped  at  last  close  by  an  old  church,  standing  on 
the  outskirts  of  a  pretty  village.  The  low  wall  of  the  church-yard 
was  bounded  on  one  side  by  a  plantation,  and  was  joined  by  a  park 
paling,  in  which  I  noticed  a  small  wicket -gate.  Mr.  Garthwaite 
opened  it,  and  led  me  along  a  shrubbery  path,  which  conducted  us 
circuitously  to  the  dwelling-house. 

We  had  evidently  entered  by  a  private  way,  for  we  approached 
the  building  by  the  back.  I  looked  up  at  it  curiously,  and  saw 
standing  at  one  of  the  windows  on  the  lower  floor  a  little  girl 
watching  us  as  we  advanced.  She  seemed  to  be  about  nine  or  ten 
years  old.  I  could  not  help  stopping  a  moment  to  look  up  at  her, 
her  clear  complexion  and  her  long  dark  hair  were  so  beautiful. 
And  yet  there  was  something  in  her  expression  — a  dimness  and 
vacancy  in  her  large  eyes — a  changeless,  unmeaning  smile  on  her 
parted  lips — which  seemed  to  jar  with  all  that  was  naturally  attract- 
ive in  her  face ;  which  perplexed,  disappointed,  and  even  shocked 
me,  though  I  hardly  knew  why.  •  Mr.  Garthwaite,  who  had  been 
walking  along  thoughtfully,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  turned 
back  when  he  found  me  lingering  behind  him ;  looked  up  where  I 


152  AFTER   DARK. 

was  looking ;  started  a  little,  I  thought ;  then  took  my  arm,  whis- 
pered rather  impatiently,  "  Don't  say  any  thing  about  having  seen 
that  poor  child  when  you  are  introduced  to  Miss  Welwyn ;  I'll  tell 
you  why  afterward,"  and  led  me  round  hastily  to  the  front  of  the 
building. 

It  was  a  very  dreary  old  house,  with  a  lawn  in  front  thickly 
sprinkled  with  flower-beds,  and  creepers  of  all  sorts  climbing  in 
profusion  about  the  heavy  stone  porch  and  the  mullions  of  the  low- 
er windows.  In  spite  of  these  prettiest  of  all  ornaments  clustering 
brightly  round  the  building — in  spite  of  the  perfect  repair  in  which 
it  was  kept  from  top  to  bottom — there  was  something  repellent  to 
me  in  the  aspect  of  the  whole  place :  a  deathly  stillness  hung  over 
it,  which  fell  oppressively  on  my  spirits.  When  my  companion  rang 
the  loud,  deep-toned  bell,  the  sound  startled  me  as  if  we  had  been 
committing  a  crime  in  disturbing  the  silence.  And  when  the  door 
was  opened  by  an  old  female  servant  (while  the  hollow  echo  of  the 
bell  was  still  vibrating  in  the  air),  I  could  hardly  imagine  it  possi- 
ble that  we  should  be  let  in.  We  were  admitted,  however,  without 
the  slightest  demur.  I  remarked  that  there  was  the  same  atmos- 
phere of  dreary  repose  inside  the  house  which  I  had  already  ob- 
served, or  rather  felt,  outside  it.  No  dogs  barked  at  our  approach 
— no  doors  banged  in  the  servants'  offices — no  heads  peeped  over 
the  banisters — not  one  of  the  ordinary  domestic  consequences  of  an 
unexpected  visit  in  the  country  met  either  eye  or  ear.  The  large 
shadowy  apartment,  half  library,  half  breakfast  -  room,  into  which 
we  were  ushered,  was  as  solitary  as  the  hall  of  entrance ;  unless  I 
except  such  drowsy  evidences  of  life  as  were  here  presented  to  us, 
in  the  shape  of  an  Angola  cat  and  a  gray  parrot  —  the  first  lying 
asleep  in  a  chair,  the  second  sitting  ancient,  solemn,  and  voiceless, 
in  a  large  cage. 

Mr.  Garthwaite  walked  to  the  window  when  we  entered,  without 
saying  a  word.  Determining  to  let  his  taciturn  humor  have  its  way, 
I  asked  him  no  questions,  but  looked  around  the  room  to  see  what 
information  it  would  give  me  (and  rooms  often  do  give  such  infor- 
mation) about  the  character  and  habits  of  the  owner  of  the  house. 

Two  tables  covered  with  books  were  the  first  objects  that  at- 
tracted me.  On  approaching  them,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  the 
all-influencing  periodical  literature  of  the  present  day — whose  sphere 
is  already  almost  without  limit;  whose  readers,  even  in  our  time, 
may  be  numbered  by  millions — was  entirely  unrepresented  on  Miss 
Welwyn's  table.  Nothing  modern,  nothing  contemporary  in  the 
world  of  books,  presented  itself.  Of  all  the  volumes  beneath  my 
hand,  not  one  bore  the  badge  of  the  circulating  library,  or  wore  the 
flaring  modern  livery  of  gilt  cloth.  Every  work  that  I  took  up  had 
been  written  at  least  fifteen  or  twenty  years  since.  The  prints  hang- 


PROLOGUE   TO  THE   FOURTH   STORY.  153 

Ing  round  the  walls  (toward  which  I  next  looked)  were  all  engraved 
from  devotional  subjects  by  the  old  masters;  the  music-stand  con- 
tained no  music  of  later  date  than  the  compositions  of  Haydn  and 
Mozart.  Whatever  I  examined  besides,  told  me,  with  the  same  con- 
sistency, the  same  strange  tale.  The  owner  of  these  possessions 
lived  in  the  by-gone  time ;  lived  among  old  recollections  and  old 
associations — a  voluntary  recluse  from  all  that  was  connected  with 
tlic  passing  day.  In  Miss  Welwyn's  house,  the  stir,  the  tumult,  the 
"idle  business"  of  the  world,  evidently  appealed  in  vain  to  sympa- 
thies which  grew  no  longer  with  the  growing  hour. 

As  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  my  mind,  the  door  open- 
ed, and  the  lady  herself  appeared. 

She  looked  certainly  past  the  prime  of  life ;  longer  past  it,  as  I 
afterward  discovered,  than  she  really  was.  But  I  never  remember, 
in  any  other  face,  to  have  seen  so  much  of  the  better  part  of  the 
beauty  of  early  womanhood  still  remaining,  as  I  saw  in  hers.  Sor- 
row had  evidently  passed  over  the  fair,  calm  countenance  before 
me,  but  had  left  resignation  there  as  its  only  trace.  Her  expression 
was  still  youthful  —  youthful  in  its  kindness  and  its  candor  espe- 
cially. It  was  only  when  I  looked  at  her  hair,  that  was  now  growing 
gray — at  her  wan,  thin  hands — at  the  faint  lines  marked  round  her 
mouth  —  at  the  sad  serenity  of  her  eyes,  that  I  fairly  detected  the 
mark  of  age ;  and,  more  than  that,  the  token  of  some  great  grief, 
which  had  been  conquered,  but  not  banished.  Even  from  her  voice 
alone  —  from  the  peculiar  uncertainty  of  its  low,  calm  tones  when 
she  spoke  —  it  was  easy  to  conjecture  that  she  must  have  passed 
through  sufferings,  at  some  time  of  her  life,  which  had  tried  to  the 
quick  the  noble  nature  that  they  could  not  subdue. 

Mr.  Garthwaite  and  she  met  each  other  almost  like  brother  and 
sister;  it  was  plain  that  the  friendly  intimacy  between  them  had 
been  of  very  long  duration.  Our  visit  was  a  short  one.  The  con- 
versation never  advanced  beyond  the  commonplace  topics  suited 
to  the  occasion.  It  was,  therefore,  from  what  I  saw,  and  not  from 
what  I  heard,  that  I  was  enabled  to  form  my  judgment  of  Miss  Wel- 
wyn.  Deeply  as  she  had  interested  me — far  more  deeply  than  I  at 
all  know  how  to  explain  in  fitting  words — I  can  not  say  that  I  was 
unwilling  to  depart  when  we  rose  to  take  leave.  Though  nothing 
could  be  more  corteous  and  more  kind  than  her  manner  toward  me 
during  the  whole  interview,  I  could  still  perceive  that  it  cost  her 
some  effort  to  repress  in  my  presence  the  shades  of  sadness  and  re- 
serve which  seemed  often  ready  to  steal  over  her.  And  I  must  con- 
fess that  when  I  once  or  twice  heard  the  half-sigh  stifled,  and  saw 
the  momentary  relapse  into  thoughtfulncss  suddenly  restrained,  I 
felt  an  indefinable  awkwardness  in  my  position  which  made  me  ill 
at  ease ;  which  set  me  doubting  whether,  as  a  perfect  stranger,  I 


154  AFTER  DARK. 

had  done  right  in  suffering  myself  to  be  introduced  where  no  new 
faces  could  awaken  either  interest  or  curiosity ;  where  no  new  sym- 
pathies could  ever  be  felt,  no  new  friendships  ever  be  formed. 

As  soon  as  we  had  taken  leave  of  Miss  Welwyn,  and  were  on  our 
way  to  the  stream  in  her  grounds,  I  more  than  satisfied  Mr.  Gar- 
thwaite  that  the  impression  the  lady  had  produced  on  me  was  of  no 
transitory  kind,  by  overwhelming  him  with  questions  about  her — 
not  omitting  one  or  two  incidental  inquiries  on  the  subject  of  the 
little  girl  whom  I  had  seen  at  the  back  window.  He  only  rejoined 
that  his  story  would  answer  all  my  questions ;  and  that  he  would 
begin  to  tell  it  as  soon  as  we  had  arrived  at  Glenwith  Beck,  and 
were  comfortably  settled  to  fishing. 

Five  minutes  more  of  walking  brought  us  to  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  and  showed  us  the  water  running  smoothly  and  slowly, 
tinged  with  the  softest  green  lustre  from  the  reflections  of  trees 
which  almost  entirely  arched  it  over.  Leaving  me  to  admire  the 
view  at  my  ease,  Mr.  Garthwaite  occupied  himself  with  the  necessa- 
ry preparations  for  angling,  baiting  my  hook  as  well  as  his  own. 
Then,  desiring  me  to  sit  near  him  on  the  bank,  he  at  last  satisfied 
my  curiosity  by  beginning  his  story.  I  shall  relate  it  in  his  own 
manner,  and,  as  nearly  as  possible,  in  his  own  words. 


THE  LADY    OF   GLEN  WITH   GRANGE.  155 


THE  ANGLER'S  STORY 

OF 

THE  LADY  OF  GLENWITH  GRANGE. 

I  HAVE  known  Miss  Welwyn  long  enough  to  be  able  to  bear  per- 
sonal testimony  to  the  truth  of  many  of  the  particulars  which  I  am 
now  about  to  relate.  I  knew  her  father,  and  her  younger  sister 
Rosamond ;  and  I  was  acquainted  with  the  Frenchman  who  became 
Rosamond's  husband.  These  are  the  persons  of  whom  it  will  be 
principally  necessary  for  me  to  speak.  They  are  the  only  prominent 
characters  in  my  story. 

Miss  Welwyn's  father  died  some  years  since.  I  remember  him 
very  well — though  he  never  excited  in  me,  or  in  any  one  else  that  I 
ever  heard  of,  the  slightest  feeling  of  interest.  When  I  have  said 
that  he  inherited  a  very  large  fortune,  amassed  during  his  father's 
time,  by  speculations  of  a  very  daring,  very  fortunate,  but  not  always 
very  honorable  kind,  and  that  he  bought  this  old  house  with  the 
notion  of  raising  his  social  position,  by  making  himself  a  member 
of  our  landed  aristocracy  in  these  parts,  I  have  told  you  as  much 
about  him,  I  suspect,  as  you  would  care  to  hear.  He  was  a  thorough- 
ly commonplace  man,  with  no  great  virtues  and  no  great  vices  in 
him.  He  had  a  little  heart,  a  feeble  mind,  an  amiable  temper,  a  tall 
figure,  and  a  handsome  face.  More  than  this  need  not,  and  can  not, 
be  said  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Welwyn's  character. 

I  must  have  seen  the  late  Mrs.  Welwyn  very  often  as  a  child ;  but 
I  can  not  say  that  I  remember  any  thing  more  of  her  than  that  she 
was  tall  and  handsome,  and  very  generous  and  sweet-tempered 
toward  me  when  I  was  in  her  company.  She  was  her  husband's 
superior  in  birth,  as  in  every  thing  else ;  was  a  great  reader  of  books 
in  all  languages ;  and  possessed  such  admirable  talents  as  a  musi- 
cian, that  her  wonderful  playing  on  the  organ  is  remembered  and 
talked  of  to  this  day  among  the  old  people  in  our  country  houses 
about  here.  All  her  friends,  as  I  have  heard,  were  disappointed 
when  she  married  Mr.  Welwyn,  rich  as  he  was;  and  were  afterward 
astonished  to  find  her  preserving  the  appearance,  at  least,  of  being 
perfectly  happy  with  a  husband  who,  neither  in  mind  nor  heart,  was 
worthy  of  her. 

It  was  generally  supposed  (and  I  have  no  doubt  correctly)  that 
she  found  her  great  happiness  and  her  great  consolation  in  her  little 


156  AFTER  DARK. 

girl  Ida — now  the  lady  from  whom  we  have  just  parted.  The  child 
took  after  her  mother  from  the  first — inheriting  her  mother's  fond- 
ness for  books,  her  mother's  love  of  music,  her  mother's  quick  sensi- 
bilities, and,  more  than  all,  her  mother's  quiet  firmness,  patience,  and 
loving  kindness  of  disposition.  From  Ida's  earliest  years,  Mrs.  Wel- 
wyn  undertook  the  whole  superintendence  of  her  education.  The 
two  were  hardly  ever  apart,  within  doors  or  without.  Neighbors 
and  friends  said  that  the  little  girl  was  being  brought  up  too  fanci- 
fully, and  was  not  enough  among  other  children,  was  sadly  neglect- 
ed as  to  all  reasonable  and  practical  teaching,  and  was  perilously  en- 
couraged in  those  dreamy  and  imaginative  tendencies  of  which  she 
had  naturally  more  than  her  due  share.  There  was,  perhaps,  some 
truth  in  this ;  and  there  might  have  been  still  more,  if  Ida  had  pos- 
sessed an  ordinary  character,  or  had  been  reserved  for  an  ordinary 
destiny.  But  she  was  a  strange  child  from  the  first,  and  a  strange 
future  was  in  store  for  her. 

Little  Ida  reached  her  eleventh  year  without  either  brother  or  sis- 
ter to  be  her  playfellow  and  companion  at  home.  Immediately  af- 
ter that  period,  however,  her  sister  Rosamond  was  born.  Though 
Mr.  Welwyn's  own  desire  was  to  have  had  a  son,  there  were,  never- 
theless, great  rejoicings  yonder  in  the  old  house  on  the  birth  of  this 
second  daughter.  But  they  were  all  turned,  only  a  few  months  af- 
terward, to  the  bitterest  grief  and  despair :  the  Grange  lost  its  mis- 
tress. While  Rosamond  was  still  an  infant  in  arms,  her  mother 
died. 

Mrs.  Welwyn  had  been  afflicted  with  some  disorder  after  the 
birth  of  her  second  child,  the  name  of  which  I  am  not  learned 
enough  in  medical  science  to  be  able  to  remember.  I  only  know 
that  she  recovered  from  it,  to  all  appearance,  in  an  unexpectedly 
short  time;  that  she  suffered  a  fatal  relapse,  and  that  she  died  a 
lingering  and  a  painful  death.'  Mr.  Welwyn  (who,  in  after  years, 
had  a  habit  of  vaingloriously  describing  his  marriage  as  "  a  love- 
match  on  both  sides  ")  was  really  fond  of  his  wife  in  his  own  frivo- 
lous, feeble  way,  and  suffered  as  acutely  as  such  a  man  could  suffer, 
during  the  latter  days  of  her  illness,  and  at  the  terrible  time  when 
the  doctors,  one  and  all,  confessed  that  her  life  was  a  thing  to  be 
despaired  of.  He  burst  into  irrepressible  passions  of  tears,  and  was 
always  obliged  to  leave  the  sick-room  whenever  Mrs.  Welwyn  spoke 
of  her  approaching  end.  The  last  solemn  words  of  the  dying  wom- 
an, the  tenderest  messages  that  she  could  give,  the  dearest  parting 
wishes  that  she  could  express,  the  most  earnest  commands  that  she 
could  leave  behind  her,  the  gentlest  reasons  for  consolation  that  she 
could  suggest  to  the  survivors  among  those  who  loved  her,  were 
not  poured  into  her  husband's  ear,  but  into  her  child's.  From  the 
first  period  of  her  illness,  Ida  had  persisted  in  remaining  in  the  sick- 


THE  LADY  OF  GLEN  WITH  GRANGE.          157 

room,  rarely  speaking,  never  showing  outwardly  any  signs  of  terror 
or  grief,  except  when  she  was  removed  from  it;  and  then  bursting 
into  hysterical  passions  of  weeping,  which  no  expostulations,  no  ar- 
guments, no  commands  —  nothing,  in  short,  but  bringing  her  back 
to  the  bedside  —  ever  availed  to  calm.  Her  mother  had  been  her 
playfellow,  her  companion,  her  dearest  and  most  familiar  friend ; 
and  there  seemed  something  in  the  remembrance  of  this  which,  in- 
stead of  overwhelming  the  child  with  despair,  strengthened  her  to 
watch  faithfully  and  bravely  by  her  dying  parent  to  the  very  last. 

When  the  parting  moment  was  over,  and  when  Mr.  Welwyn,  un- 
able to  bear  the  shock  of  being  present  in  the  house  of  death  at  the 
time  of  his  wife's  funeral,  left  home  and  went  to  stay  with  one  of 
his  relations  in  a  distant  part  of  England,  Ida,  whom  it  had  been  his 
wish  to  take  away  with  him,  petitioned  earnestly  to  be  left  behind. 
u  I  promised  mamma  before  she  died  that  I  would  be  as  good  to  my 
little  sister  Rosamond  as  she  had  been  to  me,"  said  the  child,  simply; 
"  and  she  told  me  in  return  that  I  might  wait  here  and  see  her  laid 
in  her  grave."  There  happened  to  be  an  aunt  of  Mrs.  Welwyn,  and 
an  old  servant  of  the  family,  in  the  house  at  this  time,  who  under- 
stood Ida  much  better  than  her  father  did,  and  they  persuaded  him 
not  to  take  her  away.  I  have  heard  my  mother  say  that  the  effect 
of  the  child's  appearance  at  the  funeral  on  her,  and  on  all  who  went 
to  see  it,  was  something  that  she  could  never  think  of  without  the 
tears  coming  into  her  eyes,  and  could  never  forget  to  the  last  day  of 
her  life. 

It  must  have  been  very  shortly  after  this  period  that  I  saw  Ida 
for  the  first  time. 

I  remember  accompanying  my  mother  on  a  visit  to  the  old  house 
we  have  just  left,  in  the  summer,  when  I  was  at  home  for  the  holi- 
<lu\-.  It  was  a  lovely,  sunshiny  morning.  There  was  nobody  in- 
doors, and  we  walked  out  into  the  garden.  As  we  approached  that 
lawn  yonder,  on  the  other  side  of  the  shrubbery,  I  saw,  first,  a  young 
woman  in  mourning  (apparently  a  servant)  sitting  reading;  then  a 
little  girl,  dressed  all  in  black,  moving  toward  us  slowly  over  the 
bright  turf,  and  holding  up  before  her  a  baby,  whom  she  was  trying 
to  teach  to  walk.  She  looked,  to  my  ideas,  so  very  young  to  be  en- 
gaged in  such  an  occupation  as  this,  and  her  gloomy  black  frock 
appeared  to  be  such  an  unnaturally  grave  garment  for  a  mere  child 
of  her  age,  and  looked  so  doubly  dismal  by  contrast  with  the 
brilliant  sunny  lawn  on  which  she  stood,  that  I  quite  started  when 
I  first  saw  her,  and  eagerly  asked  my  mother  who  she  was.  The  an- 
swer informed  me  of  the  sad  family  story,  which  I  have  been  just 
relating  to  you.  Mrs.  Welwyn  had  then  been  buried  about  three 
mouths  ;  and  Ida,  in  her  childish  way,  was  trying,  as  she  had  prom- 
ised, to  supply  her  mother's  place  to  her  infant  sister  Rosamond. 


158  AFTER  DARK. 

I  only  mention  this  simple  incident,  because  it  is  necessary,  before 
I  proceed  to  the  eventful  part  of  my  narrative,  that  you  should  know 
exactly  in  what  relation  the  sisters  stood  toward  one  another  from 
the  first.  Of  all  the  last  parting  words  that  Mrs.  Welwyn  had 
spoken  to  her  child,  none  had  been  oftener  repeated,  none  more 
solemnly  urged,  than  those  which  had  commended  the  little  Rosa- 
mond to  Ida's  love  and  care.  To  other  persons,  the  full,  the  all- 
trusting  dependence  which  the  dying  mother  was  known  to  have 
placed  in  a  child  hardly  eleven  years  old,  seemed  merely  a  proof  of 
that  helpless  desire  to  cling  even  to  the  feeblest  consolations,  which 
the  approach  of  death  so  often  brings  with  it.  But  the  event  show- 
ed that  the  trust  so  strangely  placed  had  not  been  ventured  vainly 
when  it  was  committed  to  young  and  tender  hands.  The  whole 
future  existence  of  the  child  was  one  noble  proof  that  she  had  been 
worthy  of  her  mother's  dying  confidence,  when  it  was  first  reposed 
in  her.  In  that  simple  incident  which  I  have  just  mentioned  the 
new  life  of  the  two  motherless  sisters  was  all  foreshadowed. 

Time  passed.  I  left  school — went  to  college  —  traveled  in  Ger- 
many, and  staid  there  some  time  to  learn  the  language.  At  every 
interval  when  I  came  home,  and  asked  about  the  "Welwyns,  the  an- 
swer was,  in  substance,  almost  always  the  same.  Mr.  Welwyn  was 
giving  his  regular  dinners,  performing  his  regular  duties  as  a  coun- 
ty magistrate,  enjoying  his  regular  recreations  as  an  amateur  farmer 
and  an  eager  sportsman.  His  two  daughters  were  never  separate. 
Ida  was  the  same  strange,  quiet,  retiring  girl,  that  she  had  always 
been ;  and  was  still  (as  the  phrase  went)  "  spoiling  "  Rosamond  in 
every  way  in  which  it  was  possible  for  an  elder  sister  to  spoil  a 
younger  by  too  much  kindness. 

I  myself  went  to  the  Grange  occasionally,  when  I  was  in  this 
neighborhood,  in  holiday  and  vacation  time;  and  was  able  to  test 
the  correctness  of  the  picture  of  life  there  which  had  been  drawn 
for  me.  I  remember  the  two  sisters,  when  Rosamond  was  four  or 
five  years  old ;  and  when  Ida  seemed  to  me,  even  then,  to  be  more 
like  the  child's  mother  than  her  sister.  She  bore  with  her  little  ca- 
prices as  sisters  do  not  bear  with  one  another.  She  was  so  patient 
at  lesson-time,  so  anxious  to  conceal  any  weariness  that  might  over- 
come her  in  play  hours,  so  proud  when  Rosamond's  beauty  was  no- 
ticed, so  grateful  for  Rosamond's  kisses  when  the  child  thought  of 
bestowing  them,  so  quick  to  notice  all  that  Rosamond  did,  and  to 
attend  to  all  that  Rosamond  said,  even  when  visitors  were  in  the 
room,  that  she  seemed,  to  my  boyish  observation,  altogether  differ- 
ent from  other  elder  sisters  in  other  family  circles  into  which  I  was 
then  received. 

I  remember  then,  again,  when  Rosamond  was  just  growing  to 
womanhood,  and  was  in  high  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  spending  a 


THE   LADY   OF   GLENWTTH   GRANGE.  159 

season  in  London,  and  being  presented  at  court.  She  was  very 
beautiful  at  that  time — much  handsomer  than  Ida.  Her  "  accom- 
plishments" were  talked  of  far  and  near  in  our  country  circles. 
Few,  if  any,  of  the  people,  however,  who  applauded  her  playing  and 
singing,  who  admired  her  water-color  drawings,  who  were  delight- 
ed at  her  fluency  when  she  spoke  French,  and  amazed  at  her  ready 
comprehension  when  she  read  German,  knew  how  little  of  all  this 
elegant  mental  cultivation  and  nimble  manual  dexterity  she  owed  to 
her  governesses  and  masters,  and  how  much  to  her  elder  sister.  It 
was  Ida  who  really  found  out  the  means  of  stimulating  her  when  she 
was  idle ;  Ida  who  helped  her  through  all  her  worst  difficulties ;  Ida 
who  gently  conquered  her  defects  of  memory  over  her  books,  her 
inaccuracies  of  ear  at  the  piano,  her  errors  of  taste  when  she  took 
the  brush  or  pencil  in  hand.  It  was  Ida  alone  who  worked  these 
marvels,  and  whose  all  •  sufficient  reward  for  her  hardest  exertions 
was  a  chance  word  of  kindness  from  her  sister's  lips.  Rosamond 
was  not  unaffectionate,  and  not  ungrateful ;  but  she  inherited  much 
of  her  father's  commonness  and  frivolity  of  character.  She  became 
so  accustomed  to  owe  every  thing  to  her  sister — to  resign  all  her 
most  trifling  difficulties  to  Ida's  ever-ready  care — to  have  all  her 
tastes  consulted  by  Ida's  ever  -  watchful  kindness — that  she  never 
appreciated,  as  it  deserved,  the  deep,  devoted  love  of  which  she  was 
the  object.  When  Ida  refused  two  good  offers  of  marriage,  Rosa- 
mond was  as  much  astonished  as  the  veriest  strangers,  who  won- 
dered why  the  elder  Miss  Welwyn  seemed  bent  on  remaining  single 
all  her  life. 

When  the  journey  to  London,  to  which  I  have  already  alluded, 
took  place,  Ida  accompanied  her  father  and  sister.  If  she  had  con- 
sulted her  own  tastes,  she  would  have  remained  in  the  country ;  but 
Rosamond  declared  that  she  should  feel  quite  lost  and  helpless 
twenty  times  a  day,  in  town,  without  her  sister.  It  was  in  the  na- 
ture of  Ida  to  sacrifice  herself  to  any  one  whom  she  loved,  on  the 
smallest  occasions  as  well  as  the  greatest.  Her  affection  was  as  in- 
tuitively ready  to  sanctify  Rosamond's  slightest  caprices  as  to  excuse 
Rosamond's  most  thoughtless  faults.  So  she  went  to  London  cheer- 
fully, to  witness  with  pride  all  the  little  triumphs  won  by  her  sister's 
beauty ;  to  hear,  and  never  tire  of  hearing,  all  that  admiring  friends 
could  say  in  her  sister's  praise. 

At  the  end  of  the  season,  Mr.  Welwyn  and  his  daughters  returned 
for  a  short  time  to  the  country ;  then  left  home  again  to  spend  the 
hitter  part  of  the  autumn  and  the  beginning  of  the  winter  in  Paris. 

They  took  with  them  excellent  letters  of  introduction,  and  saw  a 
great  deal  of  the  best  society  in  Paris,  foreign  as  well  as  English. 
At  one  of  the  first  of  the  evening  parties  which  they  attended,  the 
general  topic  of  conversation  was  the  conduct  of  a  certain  French 


160  AFTER  DARK. 

nobleman,  the  Baron  Franval,  who  had  returned  to  his  native  coun 
try  after  a  long  absence,  and  who  was  spoken  of  in  terms  of  high 
eulogy  by  the  majority  of  the  guests  present.  The  history  of  who 
Franval  was,  and  of  what  he  had  done,  was  readily  communicated  to 
Mr.  Welwyn  and  his  daughters,  and  was  briefly  this : 

The  baron  inherited  little  from  his  ancestors  besides  his  high  rank 
and  his  ancient  pedigree.  On  the  death  of  his  parents,  he  and  his 
two  unmarried  sisters  (their  only  surviving  children)  found  the  small 
territorial  property  of  the  Franvals,  in  Normandy,  barely  productive 
enough  to  afford  a  comfortable  subsistence  for  the  three.  The  bar- 
on, then  a  young  man  of  three  -  and  -  twenty,  endeavored  to  obtain 
such  military  or  civil  employment  as  might  become  his  rank ;  but, 
although  the  Bourbons  were  at  that  time  restored  to  the  throne  of 
France,  his  efforts  were  ineffectual.  Either  his  interest  at  court  was 
bad,  or  secret  enemies  were  at  work  to  oppose  his  advancement. 
He  failed  to  obtain  even  the  slightest  favor;  and,  irritated  by  un- 
deserved neglect,  resolved  to  leave  France,  and  seek  occupation  for 
his  energies  in  foreign  countries,  where  his  rank  would  be  no  bar  to 
his  bettering  his  fortunes,  if  he  pleased,  by  engaging  in  commercial 
pursuits. 

An  opportunity  of  the  kind  that  he  wanted  unexpectedly  offered 
itself.  He  left  his  sisters  in  care  of  an  old  male  relative  of  the  fam- 
ily at  the  chateau  in  Normandy,  and  sailed,  in  the  first  instance,  to 
the  West  Indies;  afterward  extending  his  wanderings  to  the  conti- 
nent of  South  America,  and  there  engaging  in  mining  transactions 
on  a  very  large  scale.  After  fifteen  years  of  absence  (during  the  lat- 
terpart  of  which  time  false  reports  of  his  death  had  reached  Norman- 
dy), he  had  just  returned  to  France,  having  realized  a  handsome  in- 
dependence, with  which  he  proposed  to  widen  the  limits  of  his  an- 
cestral property,  and  to  give  his  sisters  (who  were  still,  like  himself, 
unmarried)  all  the  luxuries  and  advantages  that  affluence  could  be- 
stow. The  baron's  independent  spirit  and  generous  devotion  to  the 
honor  of  his  family  and  the  happiness  of  his  surviving  relatives  were 
themes  of  general  admiration  in  most  of  the  social  circles  of  Paris. 
He  was  expected  to  arrive  in  the  capital  every  day ;  and  it  was  nat- 
urally enough  predicted  that  his  reception  in  society  there  could 
not  fail  to  be  of  the  most  flattering  and  most  brilliant  kind. 

The  Welwyns  listened  to  this  story  with  some  little  interest; 
Rosamond,  who  was  very  romantic,  being  especially  attracted  by  it, 
and  openly  avowing  to  her  father  and  sister,  when  they  got  back 
to  their  hotel,  that  she  felt  as  ardent  a  curiosity  as  any  body  to  see 
the  adventurous  and  generous  baron.  The  desire  was  soon  gratified. 
Franval  came  to  Paris,  as  had  been  anticipated — was  introduced  to 
the  Welwyns — met  them  constantly  in  society — made  no  favorable 
impression  on  Ida,  but  won  the  good  opinion  of  Rosamond  from  the 


THE  LADY  OF  GLEN  WITH  GRANGE.          161 

first;  and  was  regarded  with  such  high  approval  by  their  father, 
that  when  he  mentioned  his  intentions  of  visiting  England  in  the 
spring  of  the  new  year,  he  was  cordially  invited  to  spend  the  hunt- 
ing sfiison  at  (J  leu  with  (Jraii^c. 

I  came  back  from  Germany  about  the  same  time  that  the  Welwyns 
returned  from  Paris,  and  at  once  set  myself  to  improve  my  neigh- 
borly intimacy  with  the  family.  I  was  very  fond  of  Ida ;  more  fond, 
perhaps,  than  my  vanity  will  now  allow  me  to — ;  but  that  is  of  no 
consequence.  It  is  much  more  to  the  purpose  to  tell  you,  that  I 
heard  the  whole  of  the  baron's  story  enthusiastically  related  by  Mr. 
Welwyn  and  Rosamond;  that  he  came  to  the  Grange  at  the  ap- 
pointed time  ;  that  I  was  introduced  to  him ;  and  that  he  produced 
as  unfavorable  an  impression  upon  me  as  he  had  already  produced 
upon  Ida. 

It  was  whimsical  enough ;  but  I  really  could  not  tell  why  I  dis- 
liked him,  though  I  could  account  very  easily,  according  to  my  own 
notions,  for  his  winning  the  favor  and  approval  of  Rosamond  and  her 
father.  He  was  certainly  a  handsome  man,  as  far  as  features  went ; 
he  had  a  winning  gentleness  and  graceful  respect  in  his  manner 
when  he  spoke  to  women ;  and  he  sang  remarkably  well,  with  one 
of  the  sweetest  tenor  voices  I  ever  heard.  These  qualities  alone 
wci-f  tpiite  sufficient  to  attract  any  girl  of  Rosamond's  disposition; 
and  I  certainly  never  wondered  why  he  was  a  favorite  of  here. 

Then,  as  to  her  father,  the  baron  was  not  only  fitted  to  win  his 
sympathy  and  regard  in  the  field,  by  proving  himself  an  ardent 
sportsman  and  an  excellent  rider;  but  was  also,  in  virtue  of  some  of 
his  minor  personal  peculiarities,  just  the  man  to  gain  the  friendship 
of  his  host.  Mr.  Welwyn  was  as  ridiculously  prejudiced  as  most 
weak-headed  Englishmen  are,  on  the  subject  of  foreigners  in  general. 
In  spite  of  his  visit  to  Paris,  the  vulgar  notion  of  a  Frenchman  con- 
tinued to  be  his  notion,  both  while  he  was  in  France  and  when  he 
returned  from  it.  Now,  the  baron  was  as  unlike  the  traditional 
"Mounseer"  of  English  songs,  plays,  and  satires,  as  a  man  could  well 
be;  and  it  was  on  account  of  this  very  dissimilarity  that  Mr.  Wel- 
wyn first  took  a  violent  fancy  to  him,  and  then  invited  him  to  his 
house.  Franval  spoke  English  remarkably  well ;  wore  neither  beard, 
mustache,  nor  whiskers;  kept  his  hair  cut  almost  unbecomingly 
short ;  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  plainness  and  modest  good  taste; 
talked  little  in  general  society;  uttered  his  words,  when  he  did 
speak,  with  singular  calmness  and  deliberation;  and,  to  crown  all, 
had  the  greater  part  of  his  acquired  property  invested  in  English 
securities.  In  Mr.  Welwyn's  estimation,  such  a  man  as  this  was  a 
perfect  miracle  of  a  Frenchman,  and  he  admired  and  encouraged  him 
accordingly. 

I  have  said  that  I  disliked  him,  yet  could  not  assign  a  reason  for 

7* 


162  AFTER  DAEK. 

my  dislike ;  and  I  can  only  repeat  it  now.  He  was  remarkably 
polite  to  me ;  we  often  rode  together  in  hunting,  and  sat  near  each 
other  at  the  Grange  table ;  but  I  could  never  become  familiar  with 
him.  He  always  gave  me  the  idea  of  a  man  who  had  some  mental 
reservation  in  saying  the  most  trifling  thing.  There  was  a  constant 
restraint,  hardly  perceptible  to  most  people,  but  plainly  visible,  neter- 
theless,  to  me,  which  seemed  to  accompany  his  lightest  words,  and  to 
hang  about  his  most  familiar  manner.  This,  however,  was  no  just 
reason  for  my  secretly  disliking  and  distrusting  him  as  I  did.  Ida 
said  as  much  to  me,  I  remember,  when  I  confessed  to  her  what  my 
feelings  toward  him  were,  and  tried  (but  vainly)  to  induce  her  to  be 
equally  candid  with  me  in  return.  She  seemed  to  shrink  from  the 
tacit  condemnation  of  Rosamond's  opinion  which  such  a  confidence 
on  her  part  would  have  implied.  And  yet  she  watched  the  growth 
of  that  opinion — or,  in  other  words,  the  growth  of  her  sister's  liking 
for  the  baron — with  an  apprehension  and  sorrow  which  she  tried 
fruitlessly  to  conceal.  Even  her  father  began  to  notice  that  her 
spirits  were  not  so  good  as  usual,  and  to  suspect  the  cause  of  her 
melancholy.  I  remember  he  jested,  with  all  the  dense  insensibility 
of  a  stupid  man,  about  Ida  having  invariably  been  jealous,  from  a 
child,  if  Rosamond  looked  kindly  upon  any  body  except  her  elder 
sister. 

The  spring  began  to  get  far  advanced  toward  summer.  Franval 
paid  a  visit  to  London ;  came  back  in  the  middle  of  the  season  to 
Glenwith  Grange ;  wrote  to  put  off  his  departure  for  France ;  and 
at  last  (not  at  all  to  the  surprise  of  any  body  who  was  intimate  with 
the  Welwyns)  proposed  to  Rosamond,  and  was  accepted.  He  was 
candor  and  generosity  itself  when  the  preliminaries  of  the  marriage- 
settlement  were  under  discussion.  He  quite  overpowered  Mr.  Wel- 
wyn  and  the  lawyers  with  references,  papers,  and  statements  of  the 
distribution  and  extent  of  his  property,  which  were  found  to  be  per- 
fectly correct.  His  sisters  were  written  to,  and  returned  the  most 
cordial  answers;  saying  that  the  state  of  their  health  would  not 
allow  them  to  come  to  England  for  the  marriage ;  but  adding  a 
warm  invitation  to  Normandy  for  the  bride  and  her  family.  Noth- 
ing, in  short,  could  be  more  straightforward  and  satisfactory  than 
the  baron's  beliavior,  and  the  testimonies  to  his  worth  and  integrity 
which  the  news  of  the  approaching  marriage  produced  from  his  rel- 
atives and  his  friends. 

The  only  joyless  face  at  the  Grange  now  was  Ida's.  At  any  time 
it  would  have  been  a  hard  trial  to  her  to  resign  that  first  and  fore- 
most place  which  she  had  held  since  childhood  in  her  sister's  heart, 
as  she  knew  she  must  resign  it  when  Rosamond  married.  But,  se- 
cretly disliking  and  distrusting  Franval  as  she  did,  the  thought  that 
he  was  soon  to  become  the  husband  of  her  beloved  sister  filled  her 


THE  LADY  OP  GLENWITH  GRANGE.          163 

with  a  vague  sense  of  terror  which  she  could  not  explain  to  herself; 
which  it  was  imperatively  necessary  that  she  should  conceal;  and 
which,  on  those  very  accounts,  became  a  daily  and  hourly  torment 
to  her  that  was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear. 

One  consolation  alone  supported  her:  Rosamond  and  she  were  not 
to  be  separated.  She  knew  that  the  baron  secretly  disliked  her  as 
much  as  she  disliked  him  ;  she  knew  that  she  must  bid  farewell  to 
the  brighter  and  happier  part  of  her  life  on  the  day  when  she  went 
to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  her  sister's  husband ;  but,  true  to 
the  promise  made  years  and  years  ago  by  her  dying  mother's  bed — 
true  to  the  affection  which  was  the  ruling  and  beautiful  feeling  of 
her  whole  existence  —  she  never  hesitated  about  indulging  Rosa- 
mond's wish,  when  the  girl,  in  her  bright,  light-hearted  way,  said 
that  she  could  never  get  on  comfortably  in  the  marriage  state  un- 
less she  had  Ida  to  live  with  her,  and  help  her  just  the  same  as 
ever.  The  baron  was  too  polite  a  man  even  to  look  dissatisfied  when 
he  heard  of  the  proposed  arrangement ;  and  it  was  therefore  settled 
from  the  beginning  that  Ida  was  always  to  live  with  her  sister. 

The  marriage  took  place  in  the  summer,  and  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom went  to  spend  their  honey-moon  in  Cumberland.  On  their 
return  to  Glenwith  Grange,  a  visit  to  the  baron's  sisters,  in  Norman- 
dy, was  talked  of;  but  the  execution  of  this  project  was  suddenly 
and  disastrously  suspended  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Welwyn,  from  an 
attack  of  pleurisy. 

In  consequence  of  this  calamity,  the  projected  journey  was  of 
course  deferred ;  and  when  autumn  and  the  shooting  season  came, 
the  baron  was  unwilling  to  leave  the  well-stocked  preserves  of  the 
Grange.  He  seemed,  indeed,  to  grow  less  and  less  inclined,  as  time 
advanced,  for  the  trip  to  Normandy ;  and  wrote  excuse  after  excuse 
to  his  sisters,  when  letters  arrived  from  them  urging  him  to  pay  the 
promised  visit.  In  the  winter-time,  he  said  he  would  not  allow  his 
wife  to  risk  a  long  journey.  In  the  spring,  his  health  was  pro- 
nounced to  be  delicate.  In  the  genial  summer-time,  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  proposed  visit  would  be  impossible,  for  at  that  period 
the  baroness  expected  to  become  a  mother.  Such  were  the  apolo- 
gies which  Franval  seemed  almost  glad  to  be  able  to  send  to  his 
sisters  in  France. 

The  marriage  was,  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  term,  a  happy  one. 
The  baron,  though  he  never  altogether  lost  the  strange  restraint  and 
reserve  of  his  manner,  was,  in  his  quiet,  peculiar  way,  the  fondest 
and  kindest  of  husbands.  He  went  to  town  occasionally  on  busi- 
ness, but  always  seemed  glad  to  return  to  the  baroness;  he  never 
varied  in  the  politeness  of  his  bearing  toward  his  wife's  sister;  he 
behaved  with  the  most  courteous  hospitality  toward  all  the  friends 
of  the  Welwyns ;  in  short,  he  thoroughly  justified  the  good  opinion 


164  AFTER  DARK. 

which  Rosamond  and  her  father  had  formed  of  him  when  they  first 
met  at  Paris.  And  yet  no  experience  of  his  character  thoroughly 
re-assured  Ida.  Months  passed  on  quietly  and  pleasantly ;  and  still 
that  secret  sadness,  that  indefinable,  unreasonable  apprehension  on 
Rosamond's  account,  hung  heavily  on  her  sister's  heart. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  first  summer  months,  a  little  domestic  in- 
convenience happened,  which  showed  the  baroness,  for  the  first  time, 
that  her  husband's  temper  could  be  seriously  ruined  —  and  that  by 
the  veriest  trifle.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  in  two  French  pro- 
vincial newspapers  —  one  published  at  Bordeaux  and  the  other  at 
Havre.  He  always  opened  these  journals  the  moment  they  came, 
looked  at  one  particular  column  of  each  with  the  deepest  attention 
for  a  few  minutes,  then  carelessly  threw  them  aside  into  his  waste- 
paper  basket.  His  wife  and  her  sister  were  at  first  rather  surprised 
at  the  manner  in  which  he  read  his  two  papers ;  but  they  thought 
no  more  of  it  when  he  explained  that  he  only  took  them  in  to  con- 
sult them  about  French  commercial  intelligence,  which  might  be, 
occasionally,  of  importance  to  him. 

These  papers  were  published  weekly.  On  the  occasion  to  which 
I  have  just  referred,  the  Bordeaux  paper  came  on  the  proper  day,  as 
usual;  but  the  Havre  paper  never  made  its  appearance.  This  tri- 
fling circumstance  seemed  to  make  the  baron  seriously  uneasy.  He 
wrote  off  directly  to  the  country  post-office,  and  to  the  newspaper 
agent  in  London.  His  wife,  astonished  to  see  his  tranquillity  so  com- 
pletely overthrown  by  so  slight  a  cause,  tried  to  restore  his  good 
humor  by  jesting  with  him  about  the  missing  newspaper.  He  re- 
plied by  the  first  angry  and  unfeeling  words  that  she  had  heard 
issue  from  his  lips.  She  was  then  within  about  six  weeks  of  her 
confinement,  and  very  unfit  to  bear  harsh  answers  from  any  body — 
least  of  all  from  her  husband. 

On  the  second  day  no  answer  came.  On  the  afternoon  of  the 
third,  the  baron  rode  off"  to  the  post  town  to  make  inquiries.  About 
an  hour  after  he  had  gone,  a  strange  gentleman  came  to  the  Grange, 
and  asked  to  see  the  baroness.  On  being  informed  that  she  was  not 
well  enough  to  receive  visitors,  he  sent  up  a  message  that  his  bus- 
iness was  of  great  importance,  and  that  he  would  wait  down  stairs 
for  a  second  answer. 

On  receiving  this  message,  Rosamond  turned,  as  usual,  to  her  eld- 
er sister  for  advice.  Ida  went  down  stairs  immediately  to  see  the 
stranger.  What  I  am  now  about  to  tell  you  of  the  extraordinary 
interview  which  took  place  between  them,  and  of  the  shocking 
events  that  followed  it,  I  have  heard  from  Miss  Welwyn's  own  lips. 

She  felt  unaccountably  nervous  when  she  entered  the  room.  The 
stranger  bowed  very  politely,  and  asked,  in  a  foreign  accent,  if  she 
were  the  Baroness  Franval.  She  set  him  right  on  this  point,  and 


THE    LADY    OF   GLENWITH    GRANGE.  165 

told  him  she  attended  to  all  matters  of  business  for  the  baroness ; 
;u  H  ing  that,  if  his  errand  at  all  concerned  her  sister's  husband,  the 
baron  was  not  then  at  home. 

The  stranger  answered  that  he  was  aware  of  it  when  he  called, 
and  that  the  unpleasant  business  on  which  he  came  could  not  be 
confided  to  the  baron — at  least,  in  the  first  instance. 

She  asked  why.  He  said  he  was  there  to  explain ;  and  expressed 
himself  as  feeling  greatly  relieved  at  having  to  open  his  business  to 
her,  because  she  would,  doubtless,  be  best  able  to  prepare  her  sister 
for  the  bad  news  that  he  was,  unfortunately,  obliged  to  bring.  The 
sudden  faintness  which  overcame  her,  as  he  spoke  those  words,  pre- 
vented her  from  addressing  him  in  return.  He  poured  out  some 
water  for  her  from  a  bottle  which  happened  to  be  standing  on  the 
table,  and  asked  if  he  might  depend  on  her  fortitude.  She  tried 
to  say  "  Yes ;"  but  the  violent  throbbing  of  her  heart  seemed  to 
choke  her.  He  took  a  foreign  newspaper  from  his  pocket,  saying 
that  he  was  a  secret  agent  of  the  French  police — that  the  paper  was 
the  Havre  Journal  for  the  past  week,  and  that  it  had  been  expressly 
kept  from  reaching  the  baron,  as  usual,  through  his  (the  agent's)  in- 
terference. He  then  opened  the  newspaper,  and  begged  that  she 
would  nerve  herself  sufficiently  (for  her  sister's  sake)  to  read  cer- 
tain lines,  which  would  give  her  some  hint  of  the  business  that 
brought  him  there.  He  pointed  to  the  passage  as  he  spoke.  It 
was  among  the  "  Shipping  Entries,"  and  was  thus  expressed : 

"Arrived,  the  Berenice,  from  San  Francisco,  with  a  valuable  cargo 
of  hides.  She  brings  one  passenger,  the  Baron  Franval,  of  Chateau 
Franval,  in  Normandy." 

As  Miss  Welwyn  read  the  entry,  her  heart,  which  had  been  throb- 
bing violently  but  the  moment  before,  seemed  suddenly  to  cease 
from  all  action,  and  she  began  to  shiver,  though  it  was  a  warm  June 
evening.  The  agent  held  the  tumbler  to  her  lips,  and  made  her 
drink  a  little  of  the  water,  entreating  her  very  earnestly  to  take 
courage  and  listen  to  him.  He  then  sat  down,  and  referred  again 
to  the  entry,  every  word  he  uttered  seeming  to  burn  itself  in  forever 
(as  she  expressed  it)  on  her  memory  and  her  heart. 

He  said :  "  It  has  been  ascertained  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt 
that  there  is  no  mistake  about  the  name  in  the  lines  you  have  just 
read.  And  it  is  as  certain  as  that  we  are  here,  that  there  is  only 
one  Baron  Franval  now  alive.  The  question,  therefore,  is,  whether 
the  passenger  by  the  Berenice  is  the  true  baron,  or — I  beg  you  most 
earnestly  to  bear  with  me  and  to  compose  yourself — or  the  hus- 
band of  your  sister.  The  person  who  arrived  last  week  at  Havre 
was  scouted  as  an  impostor  by  the  ladies  at  the  chateau,  the  mo- 
ment he  presented  himself  there  as  their  brother,  returning  to  them 
after  sixteen  years  of  absence.  The  authorities  were  commu- 


166  AFTER  DARK. 

nicated  with,  and  I  and  my  assistants  were  instantly  sent  for  from 
Paris. 

"  We  wasted  no  time  in  questioning  the  supposed  impostor.  He 
either  was,  or  affected  to  be,  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  grief  and  indig- 
nation. We  just  ascertained,  from  competent  witnesses,  that  he 
bore  an  extraordinary  resemblance  to  the  real  baron,  and  that  he 
was  perfectly  familiar  with  places  and  persons  in  and  about  the 
chateau ;  we  just  ascertained  that,  and  then  proceeded  to  confer 
with  the  local  authorities,  and  to  examine  their  private  entries  of 
suspected  persons  in  their  jurisdiction,  ranging  back  over  a  past 
period  of  twenty  years  or  more.  One  of  the  entries  thus  consulted 
contained  these  particulars :  '  Hector  Auguste  Monbrun,  son  of  a  re- 
spectable proprietor  in  Normandy.  Well  educated ;  gentleman-like 
manners.  On  bad  terms  with  his  family.  Character:  bold,  cun- 
ning, unscrupulous,  self-possessed.  Is  a  clever  mimic.  May  be  easi- 
ly recognized  by  his  striking  likeness  to  the  Baron  Franval.  Im- 
prisoned at  twenty  for  theft  and  assault.'  " 

Miss  Welwyn  saw  the  agent  look  up  at  her  after  he  had  read  this 
extract  from  the  police-book,  to  ascertain  if  she  was  still  able  to  list- 
en to  him.  He  asked,  with  some  appearance  of  alarm,  as  their  eyes 
met,  if  she  would  like  some  more  water.  She  was  just  able  to  make 
a  sign  in  the  negative.  He  took  a  second  extract  from  his  pocket- 
book,  and  went  on. 

He  said :  "  The  next  entry  under  the  same  name  was  dated  four 
years  later,  and  ran  thus, '  H.  A.  Monbrun,  condemned  to  the  galleys 
for  life,  for  assassination,  and  other  crimes  not  officially  necessary 
to  be  here  specified.  Escaped  from  custody  at  Toulon.  Is  known, 
since  the  expiration  of  his  first  term  of  imprisonment,  to  have  al- 
lowed his  beard  to  grow,  and  to  have  worn  his  hair  long,  with  the 
intention  of  rendering  it  impossible  for  those  acquainted  with  him 
in  his  native  province  to  recognize  him,  as  heretofore,  by  his  like- 
ness to  the  Baron  Franval.'  There  were  more  particulars  added,  not 
important  enough  for  extract.  We  immediately  examined  the  sup- 
posed impostor;  for,  if  he  was  Monbrun,  we  knew  that  we  should 
find  on  his  shoulder  the  two  letters  of  the  convict  brand, '  T.  F.,' 
standing  for  Travaux  Forces.  After  the  minutest  examination  with 
the  mechanical  and  chemical  tests  used  on  such  occasions,  not  the 
slightest  trace  of  the  brand  was  to  be  found.  The  moment  this  as- 
tounding discovery  was  made,  I  started  to  lay  an  embargo  on  the 
forthcoming  numbers  of  the  Havre  Journal  for  that  week,  which 
were  about  to  be  sent  to  the  English  agent  in  London.  I  arrived 
at  Havre  on  Saturday  (the  morning  of  publication),  in  time  to  exe- 
cute my  design.  I  waited  there  long  enough  to  communicate  by 
telegraph  with  my  superiors  in  Paris,  then  hastened  to  this  place. 
What  my  errand  here  is,  you  may — " 


THE   LADY   OP   GLENAVITH   GBANGB.  167 

He  might  have  gone  on  speaking  for  some  moments  longer;  but 
Miss  Welwyn  heard  no  more. 

Her  first  sensation  of  returning  consciousness  was  the  feeling  that 
water  was  Ix-in-j  sprinkled  on  her  face.  Then  she  saw  that  all  the 
windows  in  the  room  had  been  set  wide  open,  to  give  her  air ;  and 
that  she  and  the  agent  were  still  alone.  At  first  she  felt  bewilder- 
ed, and  hardly  knew  who  he  was;  but  he  soon  recalled  to  her  mind 
the  horrible  realities  that  had  brought  him  there,  by  apologizing  for 
not  having  summoned  assistance  when  she  fainted.  He  said  it  was 
of  the  last  importance,  in  Franval's  absence,  that  no  one  in  the 
house  should  imagine  that  any  thing  unusual  was  taking  place  in 
it.  Then,  after  giving  her  an  interval  of  a  minute  or  two  to  collect 
what  little  strength  she  had  left,  he  added  that  he  would  not  in- 
crease her  sufferings  by  saying  any  thing  more,  just  then,  on  the 
shocking  subject  of  the  investigation  which  it  was  his  duty  to  make 
—that  he  would  leave  her  to  recover  herself,  and  to  consider  what 
was  the  best  course  to  be  taken  with  the  baroness  in  the  present 
terrible  emergency  —  and  that  he  would  privately  return  to  the 
house  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  ready  to  act  as 
Miss  Welwyn  wished,  and  to  afford  her  and  her  sister  any  aid  and 
protection  of  which  they  might  stand  in  need.  With  these  words 
he  bowed,  and  noiselessly  quitted  the  room. 

For  the  first  few  awful  minutes  after  she  was  left  alone,  Miss 
Welwyn  sat  helpless  and  speechless ;  utterly  numbed  in  heart,  and 
mind,  and  body — then  a  sort  of  instinct  (she  was  incapable  of  think- 
ing) seemed  to  urge  her  to  conceal  the  fearful  news  from  her  sister 
as  long  as  possible.  She  ran  up  stairs  to  Rosamond's  sitting-room, 
and  called  through  the  door  (for  she  dared  not  trust  herself  in  her 
sister's  presence)  that  the  visitor  had  come  on  some  troublesome 
business  from  their  late  father's  lawyers,  and  that  she  was  going  to 
shut  herself  up,  and  write  some  long  letters  in  connection  with  that 
business.  After  she  had  got  into  her  own  room,  she  was  never  sen- 
sible of  how  time  was  passing — never  conscious  of  any  feeling  with- 
in her,  except  a  baseless,  helpless  hope  that  the  French  police  might 
yet  be  proved  to  have  made  some  terrible  mistake — until  she  heard 
a  violent  shower  of  rain  come  on  a  little  after  sunset.  The  noise  of 
the  rain,  and  the  freshness  it  brought  with  it  in  the  air,  seemed  to 
awaken  her  as  if  from  a  painful  and  a  fearful  sleep.  The  power  of 
reflection  returned  to  her ;  her  heart  heaved  and  bounded  with  an 
overwhelming  terror,  as  the  thought  of  Rosamond  came  back  vivid- 
ly to  it ;  her  memory  recurred  despairingly  to  the  long-past  day  of 
her  mother's  death,  and  to  the  farewell  promise  she  had  made  by 
her  mother's  bedside.  She  burst  into  an  hysterical  passion  of  weep- 
ing that  seemed  to  be  tearing  her  to  pieces.  In  the  midst  of  it  she 
heard  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  court-yard,  and  knew  that 
Rosamond's  husband  had  come  back. 


168  AFTER    DAKK. 

Dipping  her  handkerchief  in  cold  water,  and  passing  it  over  her 
eyes  as  she  left  the  room,  she  instantly  hastened  to  her  sister. 

Fortunately  the  daylight  was  fading  in  the  old-fashioned  chamber 
that  Rosamond  occupied.  Before  they  could  say  two  words  to  each 
other,  Franval  was  in  the  room.  He  seemed  violently  irritated ;  said 
that  he  had  waited  for  the  arrival  of  the  mail  —  that  the  missing 
newspaper  had  not  come  by  it — that  he  had  got  wet  through — that 
he  felt  a  shivering  fit  coming  on — and  that  he  believed  he  had 
caught  a  violent  cold.  His  wife  anxiously  suggested  some  simple 
remedies.  He  roughly  interrupted  her,  saying  there  was  but  one 
remedy,  the  remedy  of  going  to  bed ;  and  so  left  them  without  an- 
other word.  She  just  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  said 
softly  to  her  sister,  "  How  he  is  changed !"  then  spoke  no.  more. 
They  sat  silent  for  half  an  hour  or  longer.  After  that,  Rosamond 
went  affectionately  and  forgivingly  to  see  how  her  husband  was. 
She  returned,  saying  that  he  was  in  bed,  and  in  a  deep,  heavy  sleep ; 
and  predicting  hopefully  that  he  would  wake  up  quite  well  the 
next  morning.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  clock  struck  nine ;  and 
Ida  heard  the  servant's  step  ascending  the  stairs.  She  suspected 
what  his  errand  was,  and  went  out  to  meet  him.  Her  presentiment 
had  not  deceived  her ;  the  police  agent  had  arrived,  and  was  wait- 
ing for  her  down  stairs. 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  said  any  thing  to  her  sister,  or  had 
thought  of  any  plan  of  action,  the  moment  she  entered  the  room; 
and,  on  receiving  a  reply  in  the  negative,  inquired,  further,  if  "  the 
baron"  had  come  home  yet.  She  answered  that  he  had;  that  he 
was  ill  and  tired,  and  vexed,  and  that  he  had  gone  to  bed.  The 
agent  asked  in  an  eager  whisper  if  she  knew  that  he  was  asleep,  and 
alone  in  bed?  and,  when  he  received  her  reply,  said  that  he  must  go 
up  into  the  bedroom  directly. 

She  began  to  feel  the  faintness  coming  over  her  again,  and  with 
it  sensations  of  loathing  and  terror  that  she  could  neither  express  to 
others  nor  define  to  herself.  He  said  that  if  she  hesitated  to  let  him 
avail  himself  of  this  unexpected  opportunity,  her  scruples  might 
lead  to  fatal  results.  He  reminded  her  that  if  "  the  baron  "  were 
really  the  convict  Monbrun,  the  claims  of  society  and  of  justice  de- 
manded that  he  should  be  discovered  by  the  first  available  means ; 
and  that  if  he  were  not — if  some  inconceivable  mistake  had  really 
been  committed — then  such  a  plan  for  getting  immediately  at  the 
truth  as  was  now  proposed  would  insure  the  delivery  of  an  inno- 
cent man  from  suspicion,  and  at  the  same  time  spare  him  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  ever  been  suspected.  This  last  argument  had  its 
effect  on  Miss  Welwyn.  The  baseless,  helpless  hope  that  the  French 
authorities  might  yet  be  proved  to  be  in  error,  which  she  had  al- 
ready felt  in  her  own  room,  returned  to  her  now.  She  suffered  the 
agent  to  lead  her  up  stairs. 


THE   LADY    OF   GLENWITII    GRANGE.  169 

He  took  the  candle  from  her  hand  when  she  pointed  to  the  door ; 
opened  it  softly;  and,  leaving  it  ajar,  went  into  the  room. 

She  looked  through  the  gap  with  a  feverish,  horror-struck  curi- 
osity. Franval  was  lying  on  his  side  in  a  profound  sleep,  with  his 
l>ark  turned  toward  the  door.  The  agent  softly  placed  the  candle 
upon  a  small  reading-table  between  the  door  and  the  bedside,  softly 
drew  down  the  bedclothes  a  little  away  from  the  sleeper's  back, 
then  took  a  pair  of  scissors  from  the  toilet-table,  and  very  gently 
and  slowly  began  to  cut  away,  first  the  loose  folds,  then  the  inter- 
vening strips  of  linen,  from  the  part  of  Franval's  night-gown  that 
was  over  his  shoulders.  When  the  upper  part  of  his  back  had  been 
bared  in  this  way,  the  agent  took  the  candle  and  held  it  near  the 
flesh.  Miss  Wehvyn  heard  him  ejaculate  some  word  under  his 
breath,  then  saw  him  looking  round  to  where  she  was  standing,  and 
beckoning  to  her  to  come  in. 

Mechanically  she  obeyed ;  mechanically  she  looked  down  where 
his  finger  was  pointing.  It  was  the  convict  Monbrun — there,  just 
visible  under  the  bright  light  of  the  candle,  were  the  fatal  letters 
"T.  F."  branded  on  the  villain's  shoulder! 

Though  she  could  neither  move  nor  speak,  the  horror  of  this  dis- 
covery did  not  deprive  her  of  her  consciousness.  She  saw  the  agent 
softly  draw  up  the  bedclothes  again  into  their  proper  position,  re- 
place the  scissors  on  the  toilet-table,  and  take  from  it  a  bottle  of 
smelling-salts.  She  felt  him  removing  her  from  the  bedroom,  and 
helping  her  quickly  down  stairs,  giving  her  the  salts  to  smell  to  by 
the  way.  When  they  were  alone  again,  he  said,  with  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  agitation  that  he  had  yet  exhibited,  "Now,  madam,  for 
God's  sake,  collect  all  your  courage,  and  be  guided  by  me.  You 
and  your  sister  had  better  leave  the  house  immediately.  Have  you 
any  relatives  in  the  neighborhood  with  whom  you  could  take  ref- 
uge ?"  They  had  none.  "  What  is  the  name  of  the  nearest  town 
where  you  could  get  good  accommodation  for  the  night  ?"  Harley- 
brook  (he  wrote  the  name  down  on  his  tablets).  "  How  far  off  is 
it?"  Twelve  miles.  "You  had  better  have  the  carriage  out  at 
once,  to  go  there  with  as  little  delay  as  possible,  leaving  me  to  pass 
the  night  here.  I  will  communicate  with  you  to-morrow  at  the 
principal  hotel.  Can  you  compose  yourself  sufficiently  to  be  able  to 
tell  the  head  servant,  if  I  ring  for  him,  that  he  is  to  obey  my  orders 
till  further  notice  ?" 

The  servant  was  summoned,  and  received  his  instructions,  the 
agent  going  out  with  him  to  see  that  the  carriage  was  got  ready 
quietly  and  quickly.  Miss  Welwyn  went  up  stairs  to  her  sister. 

How  the  fearful  news  was  first  broken  to  Rosamond,  I  can  not  re- 
late to  you.  Miss  Welwyn  has  never  confided  to  me,  has  never  con- 
fided to  any  body,  what  happened  at  the  interview  between  her  sis- 

7* 


170  AFTER   DARK. 

ter  and  herself  that  night.  I  can  tell  you  nothing  of  the  shock  they 
both  suffered,  except  that  the  younger  and  the  weaker  died  under 
it;  that  the  elder  and  the  stronger  has  never  recovered  from  it, 
and  never  will. 

They  went  away  the  same  night,  with  one  attendant,  to  Harley- 
brook,  as  the  agent  had  advised.  Before  daybreak  Rosamond  was 
seized  with  the  pains  of  premature  labor.  She  died  three  days  af- 
ter, unconscious  of  the  horror  of  her  situation,  wandering  in  her 
mind  about  past  times,  and  singing  old  tunes  that  Ida  had  taught 
her  as  she  lay  in  her  sister's  arms. 

The  child  was  born  alive,  and  lives  still.  You  saw  her  at  the 
window  as  we  came  in  at  the  back  way  to  the  Grange.  I  surprised 
you,  I  dare  say,  by  asking  you  not  to  speak  of  her  to  Miss  Welwyn. 
Perhaps  you  noticed  something  vacant  in  the  little  girl's  expression. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  her  mind  is  more  vacant  still.  If  "  idiot "  did 
not  sound  like  a  mocking  word,  however  tenderly  and  pityingly 
one  may  wish  to  utter  it,  I  should  tell  you  that  the  poor  thing  had 
been  an  idiot  from  her  birth. 

You  will,  doubtless,  want  to  hear  now  what  happened  at  Glen- 
with  Grange  after  Miss  Welwyn  and  her  sister  had  left  it.  I  have 
seen  the  letter  which  the  police  agent  sent  the  next  morning  to 
Harleybrook ;  and,  speaking  from  my  recollection  of  that,  I  shall  be 
able  to  relate  all  you  can  desire  to  know. 

First,  as  to  the  past  history  of  the  scoundrel  Monbrun,  I  need  only 
tell  you  that  he  was  identical  with  an  escaped  convict,  who,  for  a 
long  term  of  years,  had  successfully  eluded  the  vigilance  of  the 
authorities  all  over  Europe,  and  in  America  as  well.  In  conjunction 
with  two  accomplices,  he  had  succeeded  in  possessing  himself  of 
large  sums  of  money  by  the  most  criminal  means.  He  also  acted 
secretly  as  the  "  banker  "  of  his  convict  brethren,  whose  dishonest 
gains  were  all  confided  to  his  hands  for  safe-keeping.  He  would 
have  been  certainly  captured,  on  venturing  back  to  France,  along 
with  his  two  associates,  but  for  the  daring  imposture  in  which  he 
took  refuge ;  and  which,  if  the  true  Baron  Franval  had  really  died 
abroad,  as  was  reported,  would,  in  all  probability,  never  have  been 
found  out. 

Besides  his  extraordinary  likeness  to  the  baron,  he  had  every 
other  requisite  for  carrying  on  his  deception  successfully.  Though 
his  parents  were  not  wealthy,  he  had  received  a  good  education. 
He  was  so  notorious  for  his  gentleman-like  manners  among  the  vil- 
lainous associates  of  his  crimes  and  excesses,  that  they  nicknamed 
him  "  the  Prince."  All  his  early  life  had  been  passed  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Chateau  Franval.  He  knew  what  were  the  circum- 
stances which  had  induced  the  baron  to  leave  it.  He  had  been  in 
the  country  to  which  the  baron  had  emigrated.  He  was  able  to  re- 


THE    LADY    OF   GLEN  WITH    GRANGE.  171 

fer  familiarly  to  persons  and  localities,  at  home  and  abroad,  with 
which  the  baron  was  sure  to  l>e  acquainted.  And,  lastly,  he  had  an 
expatriation  of  fifteen  years  to  plead  for  him  as  his  all-sufficient  ex- 
cuse, if  he  made  any  slight  mistakes  before  the  baron's  sisters,  in  his 
assumed  character  of  their  long-absent  brother.  It  will  be,  of  course, 
hardly  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you,  in  relation  to  this  part  of  the 
subject,  that  the  true  Franval  was  immediately  and  honorably  rein- 
stated in  the  family  rights  of  which  the  impostor  had  succeeded 
for  a  time  in  depriving  him. 

According  to  Monbrun's  own  account,  he  had  married  poor  Rosa- 
mond purely  for  love ;  and  the  probabilities  certainly  are,  that  the 
pretty,  innocent  English  girl  had  really  struck  the  villain's  fancy  for 
tin-  tinx- ;  and  that  the  easy,  quiet  life  he  was  leading  at  the  Grange 
pleased  him,  by  contrast  with  his  perilous  and  vagabond  existence 
of  former  days.  What  might  have  happened  if  he  had  had  time 
enough  to  grow  wearied  of  his  ill-fated  wife  and  his  English  home, 
it  is  now  useless  to  inquire.  What  really  did  happen  on  the  morn- 
ing when  lie  awoke  after  the  flight  of  Ida  and  her  sister  can  be 
briefly  told. 

As  soon  as  his  eyes  opened  they  rested  on  the  police  agent,  sit- 
ting quietly  by  the  bedside,  with  a  loaded  pistol  in  his  hand.  Mon- 
brun  knew  immediately  that  he  was  discovered;  but  he  never  for 
an  instant  lost  the  self-possession  for  which  he  was  famous.  He 
said  he  wished  to  have  five  minutes  allowed  him  to  deliberate  qui- 
etly in  bed,  whether  he  should  resist  the  French  authorities  on  En- 
glish ground,  and  so  gain  time  by  obliging  the  one  Government  to 
apply  specially  to  have  him  delivered  up  by  the  other — or  whether 
he  should  accept  the  terms  officially  offered  to  him  by  the  agent, 
if  he  quietly  allowed  himself  to  be  captured.  He  chose  the  latter 
course — it  was  suspected,  because  he  wished  to  communicate  per- 
sonally with  some  of  his  convict  associates  in  France,  whose  fraud- 
ulent gains  were  in  his  keeping,  and  because  he  felt  boastfully  con- 
fident of  being  able  to  escape  again,  whenever  he  pleased.  Be  his 
secret  motives,  however,  what  they  might,  he  allowed  the  agent  to 
conduct  him  peaceably  from  the  Grange ;  first  writing  a  farewell 
letter  to  poor  Rosamond,  full  of  heartless  French  sentiment  and  glib 
sophistries  about  Fate  and  Society.  His  own  fate  was  not  long  in 
overtaking  him.  He  attempted  to  escape  again,  as  it  had  been  ex- 
pected he  would,  and  was  shot  by  the  sentinel  on  duty  at  the  time. 
I  remember  hearing  that  the  bullet  entered  his  head  and  killed  him 
on  the  spot. 

My  story  is  done.  It  is  ten  years  now  since  Rosamond  was  buried 
in  the  church-yard  yonder;  and  it  is  ten  years  also  since  Misa  Wel- 
wyn  returned  to  be  the  lonely  inhabitant  of  Glenwith  Grange.  She 
now  lives  but  in  the  remembrances  that  it  calls  up  before  her  of  her 


172  AFTER    DAKK. 

happier  existence  of  former  days.  There  is  hardly  an  object  in  the 
old  house  which  does  not  tenderly  and  solemnly  remind  her  of  the 
mother,  whose  last  wishes  she  lived  to  obey ;  of  the  sister,  whose 
happiness  was  once  her  dearest  earthly  care.  Those  prints  that  you 
noticed  on  the  library  walls  Rosamond  used  to  copy  in  the  past  time, 
when  her  pencil  was  often  guided  by  Ida's  hand.  Those  music-books 
that  you  were  looking  over,  she  and  her  mother  have  played  from  to- 
gether through  many  a  long  and  quiet  summer's  evening.  She  has 
no  ties  now  to  bind  her  to  the  present  but  the  poor  child  whose  af- 
fliction it  is  her  constant  effort  to  lighten,  and  the  little  peasant  pop- 
ulation around  her,  whose  humble  cares  and  wants  and  sorrows  she 
is  always  ready  to  relieve.  Far  and  near  her  modest  charities  have 
penetrated  among  us ;  and  far  and  near  she  is  heartily  beloved  and 
blessed  in  many  a  laborer's  household.  There  is  no  poor  man's 
hearth,  not  in  this  village  only,  but  for  miles  away  from  it  as  well, 
at  which  you  would  not  be  received  with  the  welcome  given  to  an 
old  friend,  if  you  only  told  the  cottagers  that  you  knew  the  Lady  of 
Glenwith  Grange ! 


PBOLOGUE   TO  THE   FIFTH   STOEY.  173 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  FIFTH  STORY. 

THE  next  piece  of  work  which  occupied  my  attention  after  tak- 
ing leave  of  Mr.  Garthwaite,  offered  the  strongest  possible  contrast 
to  the  task  which  had  last  engaged  me.  Fresh  from  painting  a  bull 
;it  a  farm-house,  I  set  forth  to  copy  a  Holy  Family,  by  Correggio,  at 
a  convent  of  nuns.  People  who  go  to  the  Royal  Academy  Exhibi- 
tion, and  see  pictures  by  famous  artists,  painted  year  after  year  in 
the  same  marked  style  which  first  made  them  celebrated,  would  be 
amazed  indeed  if  they  knew  what  a  Jack-of-all-trades  a  poor  painter 
must  become  before  he  can  gain  his  daily  bread. 

The  picture  by  Correggio  which  I  was  now  commissioned  to 
copy  had  been  lent  to  the  nuns  by  a  Catholic  gentleman  of  fortune, 
who  prized  it  as  the  gem  of  his  collection,  and  who  had  never  be- 
fore trusted  it  out  of  his  own  hands.  My  copy,  when  completed, 
was  to  be  placed  over  the  high  altar  of  the  convent  chapel ;  and  my 
work  throughout  its  progress  was  to  be  pursued  entirely  in  the  par- 
lor of  the  nunnery,  and  always  in  the  watchful  presence  of  one  or 
other  of  the  inmates  of  the  house.  It  was  only  on  such  conditions 
that  the  owner  of  the  Correggio  was  willing  to  trust  his  treasure 
out  of  his  own  hands,  and  to  suffer  it  to  be  copied  by  a  stranger. 
The  restrictions  he  imposed,  which  I  thought  sufficiently  absurd, 
and  perhaps  offensively  suspicious  as  well,  were  communicated  to 
me  politely  enough  before  I  was  allowed  to  undertake  the  commis- 
sion. Unless  I  was  inclined  to  submit  to  precautionary  regulations 
which  would  affect  any  other  artist  exactly  as  they  affected  me,  I 
was  told  not  to  think  of  offering  to  make  the  copy ;  and  the  nuns 
would  then  address  themselves  to  some  other  person  in  my  profes- 
sion. After  a  day's  consideration,  I  submitted  to  the  restrictions, 
by  my  wife's  advice,  and  saved  the  nuns  the  trouble  of  making  ap- 
plication for  a  copier  of  Correggio  in  any  other  quarter. 

I  found  the  convent  was  charmingly  situated  in  a  quiet  little 
valley  in  the  West  of  England.  The  parlor  in  which  I  was  to 
paint  was  a  large,  well  -  lighted  apartment ;  and  the  village  inn, 
about  half  a  mile  off,  afforded  me  cheap  and  excellent  quarters  for 
the  night.  Thus  far,  therefore,  there  was  nothing  to  complain  of. 
As  for  the  picture,  which  was  the  next  object  of  interest  to  me,  I 
was  surprised  to  find  that  the  copying  of  it  would  be  by  no  means 
so  difficult  a  task  as  I  had  anticipated.  I  am  rather  of  a  revolution- 
ary spirit  in  matters  of  art,  and  am  bold  enough  to  think  that  the 


174  AFTER  DARK. 

old  masters  have  their  faults  as  well  as  their  beauties.  I  can  give 
my  opinion,  therefore,  on  the  Correggio  at  the  convent  independent- 
ly at  least.  Looked  at  technically,  the  picture  was  a  fine  specimen 
of  coloring  and  execution  ;  but  looked  at  for  the  higher  merits  of 
delicacy,  elevation,  and  feeling  for  the  subject,  it  deserved  copying 
as  little  as  the  most  commonplace  work  that  any  unlucky  modern 
artist  ever  produced.  The  faces  of  the  Holy  Family  not  only  failed 
to  display  the  right  purity  and  tenderness  of  expression,  but  abso- 
lutely failed  to  present  any  expression  at  all.  It  is  flat  heresy  to  say 
so,  but  the  valuable  Correggio  was  nevertheless  emphatically,  and, 
in  so  many  words,  a  very  uninteresting  picture. 

So  much  for  the  convent  and  the  work  that  I  was  to  do  in  it. 
My  next  anxiety  was  to  see  how  the  restrictions  imposed  on  me 
were  to  be  carried  out.  The  first  day,  the  Mother  Superior  her- 
self mounted  guard  in  the  parlor — a  stern,  silent,  fanatical-looking 
woman,  who  seemed  determined  to  awe  me  and  make  me  uncom- 
fortable, and  who  succeeded  thoroughly  in  the  execution  of  her 
purpose.  The  second  day  she  was  relieved  by  the  officiating  priest 
of  the  convent — a  mild,  melancholy,  gentleman-like  man,  with  whom 
I  got  on  tolerably  well.  The  third  day,  I  had  for  overlooker  the 
portress  of  the  house  —  a  dirty,  dismal,  deaf,  old  woman,  who  did 
nothing  but  knit  stockings  and  chew  orris-root.  The  fourth  day, 
a  middle-aged  nun,  whom  I  heard  addressed  as  Mother  Martha,  oc- 
cupied the  post  of  guardian  to  the  precious  Correggio ;  and  with  her 
the  number  of  my  overlookers  terminated.  She,  and  the  portress, 
and  the  priest,  and  the  Mother  Superior,  relieved  each  other  with 
military  regularity,  until  I  had  put  the  last  touch  to  my  copy.  I 
found  them  ready  for  me  every  morning  on  entering  the  parlor,  and 
I  left  them  in  the  chair  of  observation  every  evening  on  quitting  it. 
As  for  any  young  and  beautiful  nuns  who  might  have  been  in  the 
building,  I  never  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  the  ends  of  their  veils. 
From  the  door  to  the  parlor,  and  from  the  parlor  to  the  door,  com- 
prised the  whole  of  my  experience  of  the  inside  of  the  convent. 

The  only  one  of  my  superintending  companions  with  whom  I 
established  any  thing  like  a  familiar  acquaintance  was  Mother  Mar- 
tha. She  had  no  outward  attractions  to  recommend  her ;  but  she 
was  simple,  good-humored,  ready  to  gossip,  and  inquisitive  to  a  per- 
fectly incredible  degree.  Her  whole  life  had  been  passed  in  the  nun- 
nery; she  was  thoroughly  accustomed  to  her  seclusion,  thoroughly 
content  with  the  monotonous  round  of  her  occupations ;  not  at  all 
anxious  to  see  the  world  for  herself;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  insatia- 
bly curious  to  know  all  about  it  from  others.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion connected  with  myself,  my  wife,  my  children,  my  friends,  my 
profession,  my  income,  my  travels,  my  favorite  amusements,  and 
even  my  favorite  sins,  which  a  woman  could  ask  a  man,  that  Mother 


PROLOGUE   TO   THE    FIFTH   STOEY.  175 

Martha  did  not,  in  the  smallest  and  softest  of  voices,  ask  of  me. 
Though  an  intelligent,  well-informed  person  in  all  that  related  to 
her  own  special  vocation,  she  was  a  perfect  child  in  every  thing  else. 
I  constantly  caught  myself  talking  to  her,  just  as  I  should  have 
talked  at  home  to  one  of  my  own  little  girls. 

I  hope  no  one  will  think  that,  in  expressing  myself  thus,  I  am 
writing  disparagingly  of  the  poor  nun.  On  two  accounts,  I  shall 
always  feel  compassionately"  and  gratefully  toward  Mother  Martha. 
She  was  the  only  person  in  the  convent  who  seemed  sincerely  anx- 
ious to  make  her  presence  in  the  parlor  as  agreeable  to  me  as  possi- 
ble ;  and  she  good-humoredly  told  me  the  story  which  it  is  my  ob- 
ject in  these  pages  to  introduce  to  the  reader.  In  both  ways  I  am 
deeply  indebted  to  her;  and  I  hope  always  to  remember  the  obligation. 

The  circumstances  under  which  the  story  came  to  be  related  to 
me  may  be  told  in  very  few  words. 

The  interior  of  a  convent  parlor  being  a  complete  novelty  to  me, 
I  looked  around  with  some  interest  on  first  entering  my  painting- 
room  at  the  nunnery.  There  was  but  little  in  it  to  excite  the  cu- 
riosity of  any  one.  The  floor  was  covered  with  common  matting, 
and  the  ceiling  with  plain  whitewash.  The  furniture  was  of  the 
simplest  kind :  a  low  chair  with  a  praying-desk  fixed  to  the  back, 
and  a  finely  carved  oak  book-case,  studded  all  over  with  brass  crosses, 
being  the  only  useful  objects  that  I  could  discern  which  had  any 
conventual  character  about  them.  As  for  the  ornaments  of  the 
room,  they  were  entirely  beyond  my  appreciation.  I  could,  feel  no 
interest  in  the  colored  prints  of  saints,  with  gold  platters  at  the 
backs  of  their  heads,  that  hung  on  the  walls ;  and  I  could  see  noth- 
ing particularly  impressive  in  the  two  plain  little  alabaster  pots  for 
holy  water,  fastened,  one  near  the  door,  the  other  over  the  chimney- 
piece.  The  only  object,  indeed,  in  the  whole  room  which  in  the 
slightest  degree  attracted  my  curiosity  was  an  old  worm  -  eaten 
wooden  cross,  made  in  the  rudest  manner,  hanging  by  itself  on  a 
slip  of  wall  between  two  windows.  It  was  so  strangely  rough  and 
misshapen  a  thing  to  exhibit  prominently  in  a  neat  room,  that  I  sus- 
pected some  history  must  be  attached  to  it,  and  resolved  to  speak 
to  my  friend  the  nun  about  it  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

"  Mother  Martha,"  said  I,  taking  advantage  of  the  first  pause  in 
the  succession  of  quaintly  innocent  questions  which  she  was  as  usual 
addressing  to  me,  "I  have  been  looking  at  that  rough  old  cross 
hanging  between  the  windows,  and  fancying  that  it  must  surely  be 
some  curiosity — 

"  Hush  !  hush  !"  exclaimed  the  nun,  "  you  must  not  speak  of  that 
as  a  '  curiosity  ;'  the  Mother  Superior  calls  it  a  Relic." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  I ;  "  I  ought  to  have  chosen  my  ex- 
pressions more  carefully — " 


176  AFTER   DARK. 

"  Not,"  interposed  Mother  Martha,  nodding  to  show  me  that  my 
apology  need  not  be  finished — "  not  that  it  is  exactly  a  relic  in  the 
strict  Catholic  sense  of  the  word ;  but  there  were  circumstances  in 
the  life  of  the  person  who  made  it — "  Here  she  stopped,  and  look- 
ed at  me  doubtfully. 

"  Circumstances,  perhaps,  which  it  is  not  considered  advisable  to 
communicate  to  strangers,"  I  suggested. 

"  Oh  no  !"  answered  the  nun,  "  I  never  heard  that  they  were  to  be 
kept  a  secret.  They  were  not  told  as  a  secret  to  me." 

"  Then  you  know  all  about  them  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Certainly.  I  could  tell  you  the  whole  history  of  the  wooden 
cross ;  but  it  is  all  about  Catholics,  and  you  are  a  Protestant." 

"That,  Mother  Martha,  does  not  make  it  at  all  less  interesting  to 
me." 

"Does  it  not,  indeed?"  exclaimed  the  nun,  innocently.  "  What 
a  strange  man  you  are !  and  what  a  remarkable  religion  yours  must 
be !  What  do  your  priests  say  about  ours  ?  Are  they  learned  men, 
your  priests  ?" 

I  felt  that  my  chance  of  hearing  Mother  Martha's  story  would  be 
a  poor  one  indeed,  if  I  allowed  her  to  begin  a  fresh  string  of  ques- 
tions. Accordingly,  I  dismissed  the  inquiries  about  the  clergy  of 
the  Established  Church  with  the  most  irreverent  briefness,  and  re- 
called her  attention  forthwith  to  the  subject  of  the  wooden  cross. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  good-natured  nun;  "surely  you  shall  hear  all 
I  can  tell  you  about  it ;  but—"  she  hesitated  timidly,  "  but  I  must 
ask  the  Mother  Superior's  leave  first." 

Saying  these  words,  she  summoned  the  portress,  to  my  great 
amusement,  to  keep  guard  over  the  inestimable  Correggio  in  her 
absence,  and  left  the  room.  In  less  than  five  minutes  she  came  back, 
looking  quite  happy  and  important  in  her  innocent  way. 

"  The  Mother  Superior,"  she  said,  "  has  given  me  leave  to  tell  all 
I  know  about  the  wooden  eross.  She  says  it  may  do  you  good,  and 
improve  your  Protestant  opinion  of  us  Catholics." 

I  expressed  myself  as  being  both  willing  and  anxious  to  profit  by 
what  I  heard ;  and  the  nun  began  her  narrative  immediately. 

She  related  it  in  her  own  simple,  earnest,  minute  way ;  dwelling 
as  long  on  small  particulars  as  on  important  incidents ;  and  making 
moral  reflections  for  my  benefit  at  every  place  where  it  was  possible 
to  introduce  them.  In  spite,  however,  of  these  drawbacks  in  the 
telling  of  it,  the  story  interested  and  impressed  me  in  no  ordinary 
degree;  and  I  now  purpose  putting  the  events  of  it  together  as 
skillfully  and  strikingly  as  I  can,  in  the  hope  that  this  written  ver- 
sion of  the  narrative  may  appeal  as  strongly  to  the  reader's  sympa- 
thies as  the  spoken  version  did  to  mine. 


GABRIEL'S  MAERIAGK.  177 


THE  NUN'S  STORY 

or 

GABRIEL'S    MARRIAGE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

ONE  night,  during  the  period  of  the  first  French  Revolution,  the 
family  of  Francois  Sarzeau,  a  fisherman  of  Brittany,  were  all  waking 
and  watching  at  a  late  hour  in  their  cottage  on  the  peninsula  of 
Quiberon.  Francois  had  gone  out  in  his  boat  that  evening,  as  usual, 
to  fish.  Shortly  after  his  departure,  the  wind  had  risen,  the  clouds 
had  gathered ;  and  the  storm,  which  had  been  threatening  at  in- 
tervals throughout  the  whole  day,  burst  forth  furiously  about  nine 
o'clock.  It  was  now  eleven ;  and  the  raging  of  the  wind  over  the 
barren,  heathy  peninsula  still  seemed  to  increase  with  each  fresh 
blast  that  tore  its  way  out  upon  the  open  sea ;  the  crashing  of  the 
waves  on  the  beach  was  awful  to  hear ;  the  dreary  blackness  of  the 
sky  terrible  to  behold.  The  longer  they  listened  to  the  storm,  the 
oftener  they  looked  out  at  it,  the  fainter  grew  the  hopes  which 
the  fisherman's  family  still  strove  to  cherish  for  the  safety  of  Fran- 
5ois  Sarzeau  and  of  his  younger  son  who  had  gone  with  him  in  the 
boat. 

There  was  something  impressive  in  the  simplicity  of  the  scene 
that  was  now  passing  within  the  cottage. 

On  one  side  of  the  great,  rugged,  black  fire-place  crouched  two 
little  girls;  the  younger  half  asleep,  with  her  head  in  her  sister's 
lap.  These  were  the  daughters  of  the  fisherman;  and  opposite  to 
them  sat  their  eldest  brother,  Gabriel.  His  right  arm  had  been  bad- 
ly wounded  in  a  recent  encounter  at  the  national  game  of  the  Soule, 
a  sport  resembling  our  English  foot-ball ;  but  played  on  both  sides 
in  such  savage  earnest  by  the  people  of  Brittany  as  to  end  always  in 
bloodshed,  often  in  mutilation,  sometimes  even  in  loss  of  life.  On 
the  same  bench  with  Gabriel  sat  his  betrothed  wife — a  girl  of  eight- 
een— clothed  in  the  plain,  almost  monastic  black-and-white  costume 
of  her  native  district.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  small  farmer  liv- 
ing at  some  little  distance  from  the  coast.  Between  the  groups 
formed  on  either  side  of  the  fire-place,  the  vacant  space  was  «  <  - 
cupicd  by  the  foot  of  a  truckle-bed.  In  this  bed  lay  a  very  old  man, 


178  AFTER   DARK. 

the  father  of  Francois  Sarzeau.  His  haggard  face  was  covered  with 
deep  wrinkles ;  his  long  white  hair  flowed  over  the  coarse  lump  of 
sacking  which  served  him  for  a  pillow,  and  his  light  gray  eyes  wan- 
dered incessantly,  with  a  strange  expression  of  terror  and  suspicion, 
from  person  to  person,  and  from  object  to  object,  in  all  parts  of  the 
room.  Whenever  the  wind  and  sea  whistled  and  roared  at  their 
loudest,  he  muttered  to  himself  and  tossed  his  hands  fretfully  on 
his  wretched  coverlet.  On  these  occasions  his  eyes  always  fixed 
themselves  intently  on  a  little  delf  image  of  the  Virgin  placed  in  a 
niche  over  the  fire-place.  Every  time  they  saw  him  look  in  this  di- 
rection Gabriel  and  the  young  girls  shuddered  and  crossed  them- 
selves ;  and  even  the  child,  who  still  kept  awake,  imitated  their 
example.  There  was  one  bond  of  feeling  at  least  between  the  old 
man  and  his  grandchildren,  which  connected  his  age  and  their 
youth  unnaturally  and  closely  together.  This  feeling  was  reverence 
for  the  superstitions  which  had  been  handed  down  to  them  by  their 
ancestors  from  centuries  and  centuries  back,  as  far  even  as  the  age 
of  the  Druids.  The  spirit  warnings  of  disaster  and  death  which  the 
old  man  heard  in  the  wailing  of  the  wind,  in  the  crashing  of  the 
waves,  in  the  dreary,  monotonous  rattling  of  the  casement,  the  young 
man  and  his  affianced  wife  and  the  little  child  who  cowered  by  the 
fireside  heard  too.  All  differences  in  sex,  in  temperament,  in  years, 
superstition  was  strong  enough  to  strike  down  to  its  own  dread 
level,  in  the  fisherman's  cottage,  on  that  stormy  night. 

Besides  the  benches  by  the  fireside  and  the  bed,  the  only  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  room  was  a  coarse  wooden  table,  with  a  loaf  of 
black  bread,  a  knife,  and  a  pitcher  of  cider  placed  on  it.  Old  nets, 
coils  of  rope,  tattered  sails,  hung  about  the  walls  and  over  the  wood- 
en partition  which  separated  the  room  into  two  compartments. 
Wisps  of  straw  and  ears  of  barley  drooped  down  through  the  rotten 
rafters  and  gaping  boards  that  made  the  floor  of  the  granary  above. 
.  These  different  objects,  and  the  persons  in  the  cottage,  who  com- 
posed the  only  surviving  members  of  the  fisherman's  family,  were 
strangely  and  wildly  lit  up  by  the  blaze  of  the  fire  and  by  the  still 
brighter  glare  of  a  resin  torch  stuck  into  a  block  of  wood  in  the 
chimney-corner.  The  red  and  yellow  light  played  full  on  the  weird 
face  of  the  old  man  as  he  lay  opposite  to  it,  and  glanced  fitfully  on 
the  figures  of  the  young  girl,  Gabriel,  and  the  two  children;  the 
great,  gloomy  shadows  rose  and  fell,  and  grew  and  lessened  in  bulk 
about  the  walls  like  visions  of  darkness,  animated  by  a  supernatural 
spectre-life,  while  the  dense  obscurity  outside  spreading  before  the 
ctirtainless  window  seemed  as  a  wall  of  solid  darkness  that  had 
closed  in  forever  around  the  fisherman's  house.  The  night  scene 
within  the  cottage  was  almost  as  wild  and  as  dreary  to  look  upon 
as  the  night  scene  without. 


<.  vi;i;>l  T-    MARRIAGE.  179 

For  a  long  time  the  different  persons  in  the  room  sat  together 
without  speaking,  even  without  looking  at  each  other.  At  last  the 
girl  ttiriu'd  and  whispered  something  into  Gabriel's  ear. 

"Perrine,  what  were  you  saying  to  Gabriel  ?"  asked  the  child  op- 
posite, seizing  the  first  opportunity  of  breaking  the  desolate  silence 
— doubly  desolate  at  her  age — which  was  preserved  by  all  around 
her. 

"  I  was  telling  him,"  answered  Perrine,  simply,  "  that  it  was  time 
to  change  the  bandages  on  his  arm ;  and  I  also  said  to  him,  what  I 
have  often  said  before,  that  he  must  never  play  at  that  terrible  game 
of  the  Soule  again." 

The  old  man  had  been  looking  intently  at  Perrine  and  his  grand- 
child as  they  spoke.  His  harsh,  hollow  voice  mingled  with  the  last 
soft  tones  of  the  young  girl,  repeating  over  and  over  again  the  same 
terrible  words,  "Drowned!  drowned!  Son  and  grandson,  both 
drowned !  both  drowned  !" 

"  Hush,  grandfather,"  said  Gabriel,  "  we  must  not  lose  all  hope 
for  them  yet.  God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  protect  them!"  He 
looked  at  the  little  delf  image,  and  crossed  himself;  the  others  im- 
itated him,  except  the  old  man.  He  still  tossed  his  hands  over  the 
coverlet,  and  still  repeated,  "Drowned!  drowned!" 

"  Oh,  that  accursed  Soule  /"  groaned  the  young  man.  "  But  for 
this  wound  I  should  have  been  with  my  father.  The  poor  boy's  life 
might  at  least  have  been  saved ;  for  we  should  then  have  left  him 
here." 

"  Silence  !"  exclaimed  the  harsh  voice  from  the  bed.  "  The  wail 
of  dying  men  rises  louder  than  the  loud  sea ;  the  devil's  psalm-sing- 
ing roars  higher  than  the  roaring  wind!  Be  silent,  and  listen! 
Francois  drowned  !  Pierre  drowned  !  Hark  !  Hark  !" 

A  terrific'blast  of  wind  burst  over  the  house  as  he  spoke,  shaking 
it  to  its  centre,  overpowering  all  other  sounds,  even  to  the  deafen- 
ing crash  of  the  waves.  The  slumbering  child  awoke,  and  uttered  a 
scream  of  fear.  Perrine,  who  had  been  kneeling  before  her  lover 
binding  the  fresh  bandages  on  his  wounded  arm,  paused  in  her  oc- 
cupation, trembling  from  head  to  foot.  Gabriel  looked  toward  the 
window ;  his  experience  told  him  what  must  be  the  hurricane  fury 
of  that  blast  of  wind  out  at  sea,  and  he  sighed  bitterly  as  he  mur- 
mured to  himself,  "  God  help  them  both — man's  help  will  be  as 
nothing  to  them  now  !" 

"  Gabriel !"  cried  the  voice  from  the  bed  in  altered  tones — very 
faint  and  trembling. 

He  did  not  hear,  or  did  not  attend  to  the  old  man.  He  was  try- 
ing to  soothe  and  encourage  the  young  girl  at  his  feet. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  love,"  he  said,  kissing  her  very  gently  and 
tenderly  on  the  forehead.  "You  are  as  safe  here  as  anywhere. 


180  AFTER    DARK. 

Waa  I  not  right  iu  saying  that  it  would  be  madness  to  attempt 
taking  you  back  to  the  farm-house  this  evening  ?  You  can  sleep  in 
that  room,  Perrine,  when  you  are  tired — you  can  sleep  with  the  two 
girls." 

"  Gabriel !  brother  Gabriel !"  cried  one  of  the  children.  "  Oh, 
look  at  grandfather !" 

Gabriel  ran  to  the  bedside.  The  old  man  had  raised  himself 
into  a  sitting  position;  his  eyes  were  dilated,  his  whole  face  was 
rigid  with  terror,  his  hands  were  stretched  out  convulsively  toward 
his  grandson,  ''The  White  Women!"  he  screamed.  ''The  White 
Women ;  the  grave-diggers  of  the  drowned  are  out  on  the  sea  !" 

The  children,  with  cries  of  terror,  flung  themselves  into  Perrine's 
arms;  even  Gabriel  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror,  and  started 
back  from  the  bedside. 

'Still  the  old  man  reiterated,  "The  White  Women!  The  White 
Women!  Open  the  door,  Gabriel !  look  out  westward,  where  the 
ebb-tide  has  left  the  sand  dry.  You'll  see  them  bright  as  lightning 
in  the  darkness,  mighty  as  the  angels  in  stature,  sweeping  like  the 
wind  over  the  sea,  in  their  long  white  garments,  with  their  white 
hair  trailing  far  behind  them  !  Open  the  door,  Gabriel !  You'll 
see  them  stop  and  hover  over  the  place  where  your  father  and  your 
brother  have  been  drowned ;  you'll  see  them  come  on  till  they  reach 
the  sand;  you'll  see  them  dig  in  it  with  their  naked  feet,  and  beck- 
on awfully  to  the  raging  sea  to  give  up  its  dead.  Open  the  door, 
Gabriel — or,  though  it  should  be  the  death  of  me,  I  will  get  up  and 
open  it  myself!" 

Gabriel's  face  whitened  even  to  his  lips,  but  he  made  a  sign  that 
he  would  obey.  It  required  the  exertion  of  his  whole  strength  to 
keep  the  door  open  against  the  wind  while  he  looked  out. 

"  Do  you  see  them,  grandson  Gabriel  ?  Speak  the  truth,  and  tell 
me  if  you  see  them,"  cried  the  old  man. 

"I  see  nothing  but  darkness — pitch  darkness,"  answered  Gabriel, 
letting  the  door  close  again. 

"  Ah !  woe !  woe  !"  groaned  his  grandfather,  sinking  back  ex- 
hausted on  the  pillow.  "Darkness  to  you;  but  bright  as  lightning 
to  the  eyes  that  are  allowed  to  see  them.  Drowned  !  drowned ! 
Pray  for  their  souls,  Gabriel — I  see  the  White  Women  even  where  I 
lie,  and  dare  not  pray  for  them.  Son  and  grandson  drowned!  both 
drowned  !" 

The  young  man  went  back  to  Perrine  and  the  children. 

"  Grandfather  is  very  ill  to-night,"  he  whispered.  "  You  had  bet- 
ter all  go  into  the  bedroom,  and  leave  me  alone  to  watch  by  him." 

They  rose  as  he  spoke,  crossed  themselves  before  the  ima«^  of  the 
Virgin,  kissed  him  one  by  one,  and,  without  uttering  a  word,  softly 
entered  the  little  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition.  Gabriel 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  181 

looked  at  his  grandfather,  and  saw  that  he  lay  quiet  now,  with  his 
eyes  closed  as  if  he  were  already  dropping  asleep.  The  young  man 
then  heaped  some  fresh  logs  on  the  fire,  and  sat  down  by  it  to  watch 
till  morning. 

Very  dreary  was  the  moaning  of  the  night  storm  ;  but  it  was  not 
more  dreary  than  the  thoughts  which  now  occupied  him  in  his  soli- 
tude— thoughts  darkened  and  distorted  by  the  terrible  superstitions 
of  his  country  and  his  race.  Ever  since  the  period  of  his  mother's 
death  he  had  been  oppressed  by  the  conviction  that  some  curse 
hung  over  the  family.  At  first  they  had  been  prosperous,  they  had 
got  money,  a  little  legacy  had  been  left  them.  But  this  good  for- 
tune had  availed  only  for  a  time ;  disaster  on  disaster  strangely  and 
suddenly  succeeded.  Losses,  misfortunes,  poverty,  want  itself  had 
overwhelmed  them  ;  his  father's  temper  had  become  so  soured,  that 
the  oldest  friends  of  Francois  Sarzeau  declared  he  was  changed  be- 
yond recognition.  And  now,  all  this  past  misfortune — the  steady, 
withering,  household  blight  of  many  years — had  end«d  in  the  last, 
worst  misery  of  all — in  death.  The  fate  of  his  father  and  his  broth- 
er admitted  no  longer  of  a  doubt;  he  knew  it,  as  he  listened  to 
the  storm,  as  he  reflected  on  his  grandfather's  words,  as  he  called  to 
mind  his  own  experience  of  the  perils  of  the  sea.  And  this  double 
bereavement  had  fallen  on  him  just  as  the  time  was  approaching  for 
his  marriage  with  Perrine ;  just  when  misfortune  was  most  ominous 
of  evil,  just  when  it  was  hardest  to  bear !  Forebodings,  which  he 
dared  not  realize,  began  now  to  mingle  with  the  bitterness  of  his 
grief,  whenever  his  thoughts  wandered  from  the  present  to  the  fu- 
ture ;  and  as  he  sat  by  the  lonely  fireside,  murmuring  from  time  to 
time  the  Church  prayer  for  the  repose  of  the  dead,  he  almost  invol- 
untarily mingled  with  it  another  prayer,  expressed  only  in  his  own 
simple  words,  for  the  safety  of  the  living — for  the  young  girl  whose 
love  was  his  sole  earthly  treasure ;  for  the  motherless  children  who 
must  now  look  for  protection  to  him  alone. 

He  had  sat  by  the  hearth  a  long,  long  time,  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts,  not  once  looking  round  toward  the  bed,  when  he  was 
startled  by  hearing  the  sound  of  his  grandfather's  voice  once  more. 

"  Gabriel,"  whispered  the  old  man,  trembling  and  shrinking  fts 
he  spoke,  "Gabriel,  do  you  hear  a  dripping  of  water  —  now  slow, 
now  quick  again — on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  my  bed  ?" 

"  I  hear  nothing,  grandfather,  but  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  and 
the  roaring  of  the  storm  outside." 

"  Drip,  drip,  drip  !  Faster  and  faster;  plainer  and  plainer.  Take 
the  torch,  Gabriel ;  look  down  on  the  floor— look  with  all  your  eyes. 
Is  the  place  wet  there  ?  Is  it  the  rain  from  heaven  that  is  dropping 
through  the  roof?" 

Gabriel  took  the  torch  with  trembling  fingers,  and  knelt  down 


182  AFTER   DARK. 

on  the  floor  to  examine  it  closely.  He  started  back  from  the  place, 
as  he  saw  that  it  was  quite  dry — the  torch  dropped  upon  the  hearth 
— he  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  and  hid  his 
face. 

"  Is  the  floor  wet  ?  Answer  me,  I  command  you  —  is  the  floor 
wet  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  quickly  and  breathlessly. 

Gabriel  rose,  went  back  to  the  bedside,  and  whispered  to  him 
that  no  drop  of  rain  had  fallen  inside  the  cottage.  As  he  spoke  the 
words,  he  saw  a  change  pass  over  his  grandfather's  face — the  sharp 
features  seemed  to  wither  up  on  a  sudden;  the  eager  expression  to 
grow  vacant  and  death-like  in  an  instant.  The  voice,  too,  altered ; 
it  was  harsh  and  querulous  no  more ;  its  tones  became  strangely  soft, 
slow,  and  solemn,  when  the  old  man  spoke  again. 

"  I  hear  it  still,"  he  said, "  drip !  drip !  faster  and  plainer  than 
ever.  That  ghostly  dropping  of  water  is  the  last  and  the  surest  of 
the  fatal  signs  which  have  told  of  your  father's  and  your  brother's 
deaths  to-night,  and  I  know  from  the  place  where  I  hear  it  —  the 
foot  of  the  bed  I  lie  on — that  it  is  a  warning  to  me  of  my  own  ap- 
proaching end.  I  am  called  where  my  son  and  my  grandson  have 
gone  before  me ;  my  weary  time  in  this  world  is  over  at  last.  Don't 
let  Perrine  and  the  children  come  in  here,  if  they  should  awake — 
they  are  too  young  to  look  at  death."  . 

Gabriel's  blood  curdled  when  he  heard  these  words  —  when  he 
touched  his  grandfather's  hand,  and  felt  the  chill  that  it  struck  to 
his  own — when  he  listened  to  the  raging  wind,  and  knew  that  all 
help  was  miles  and  miles  away  from  the  cottage.  Still,  in  spite  of 
the  storm,  the  darkness,  and  the  distance,  he  thought  not  for  a 
moment  of  neglecting  the  duty  that  had  been  taught  him  from  his 
childhood — the  duty  of  summoning  the  priest  to  the  bedside  of  the 
dying.  "  I  must  call  Perrine,"  he  said,  "  to  watch  by  you  while  I  am 
away." 

"  Stop !"  cried  the  old  man.  "  Stop,  Gabriel ;  I  implore,  I  com- 
mand you  not  to  leave  me  !" 

"  The  priest,  grandfather — your  confession — " 

"  It  must  be  made  to  you.  In  this  darkness  and  this  hurricane 
no  man  can  keep  the  path  across  the  heath.  Gabriel,  I  am  dying — 
I  should  be  dead  before  you  got  back.  Gabriel,  for  the  love  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  stop  here  with  me  till  I  die  —  my  time  is  short  —  I 
have  a  terrible  secret  that  I  must  tell  to  somebody  before  I  draw  my 
last  breath !  Your  ear  to  my  mouth — quick  !  quick  !" 

As  he  spoke  the  last  words,  a  slight  noise  was  audible  on  the  oth- 
er side  of  the  partition,  the  door  half  opened,  and  Perrine  appeared 
at  it,  looking  affrightedly  into  the  room.  The  vigilant  eyes  of  the 
old  man — suspicious  even  in  death— caught  sight  of  her  directly. 

"  Go  back !"  he  exclaimed  faintly,  before  she  could  utter  a  word ; 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  183 

"go  back — push  her  back,  Gabriel,  and  nail  down  the  latch  in  the 
door,  if  she  won't  shut  it  of  herself!" 

••  Di-jir  Pt-rrine!  go  in  again,"  implored  Gabriel.  "Go  in,  and 
keep  the  children  from  disturbing  us.  You  will  only  make  him 
worse — you  can  be  of  no  use  here !" 

She  obeyed  without  speaking,  and  shut  the  door  again. 

While  the  old  man  clutched  him  by  the  arm,  and  repeated, 
"  Quick !  quick  !  your  ear  close  to  my  mouth,"  Gabriel  heard  her 
say  to  the  children  (who  wore  both  awake),  "  Let  us  pray  for  grand- 
father." And  as  he  knelt  down  by  the  bedside,  there  stole  on  his 
ear  the  sweet,  childish  tones  of  his  little  sisters,  and  the  soft,  sub- 
dued voice  of  the  young  girl  who  was  teaching  them  the  prayer, 
mingling  divinely  with  the  solemn  wailing  of  wind  and  sea,  rising 
in  a  still  and  awful  purity  over  the  hoarse,  gasping  whispers  of  the 
dying  man. 

••  I  took  an  oath  not  to  tell  it,  Gabriel  —  lean  down  closer!  Pra 
weak,  and  they  mustn't  hear  a  word  in  that  room — I  took  an  oath 
not  to  tell  it;  but  death  is  a  warrant  to  all  men  for  breaking  such 
an  oath  as  that.  Listen ;  don't  lose  a  word  I'm  saying  !  Don't  look 
away  into  the  room  :  the  stain  of  blood-guilt  has  defiled  it  forever ! 
Hush  !  hush  !  hush !  Let  me  .-pi-.-ik.  Now  your  father's  dead,  I 
can't  carry  the  horrid  secret  with  me  into  the  grave.  Just  remem- 
l)cr,  (iabriel — try  if  you  can't  remember  the  time  before  I  was  bed- 
ridden, ten  years  ago  and  more — it  was  about  six  weeks,  you  know, 
before  your  mother's  death ;  you  can  remember  it  by  that.  You 
and  all  the  children  were  in  that  room  with  your  mother;  you  were 
asleep,  I  think ;  it  was  night,  not  very  late  —  only  nine  o'clock. 
Your  father  and  I  were  standing  at  the  door,  looking  out  at  the 
heath  in  the  moonlight.  He  was  so  poor  at  that  time,  he  had  been 
obliged  to  sell  his  own  boat,  and  none  of  the  neighbors  would  take 
him  out  fishing  with  them — your  father  wasn't  liked  by  any  of  the 
ncighl)ors.  Well;  we  saw  a  stranger  coming  toward  us;  a  very 
young  man,  with  a  knapsack  on  his  back.  He  looked  like  a  gentle- 
man, though  he  was  but  poorly  dressed.  He  came  up,  and  told  us 
he  was  dead  tired,  and  didn't  think  he  could  reach  the  town  that 
night,  and  asked  if  we  would  give  him  shelter  till  morning.  And 
your  father  said  yes,  if  he  would  make  no  noise,  because  the  wife 
was  ill,  and  the  children  were  asleep.  So  he  said  all  he  wanted 
was  to  go  to  sleep  himself  l>efore  the  fire.  We  had  nothing  to  give 
him  but  black  bread.  He  had  better  food  with  him  than  that,  and 
undid  his  knapsack  to  get  at  it,  and — and — Gabriel !  I'm  sinking — 
drink  !  something  to  drink — I'm  parched  with  thirst." 

Silent  and  deadly  pale,  Gabriel  poured  some  of  the  cider  from  the 
pitcher  on  the  table  into  a  drinking-cup,  and  gave  it  to  the  old 
man.  Slight  as  the  stimulant  was,  its  effect  on  him  was  almost  in- 


184  AFTER    DARK. 

stantaneous.  His  dull  eyes  brightened  a  little,  and  he  went  on  in 
the  same  whispering  tones  as  before : 

"  He  pulled  the  food  out  of  his  knapsack  rather  in  a  hurry,  so 
that  some  of  the  other  small  things  in  it  fell  on  the  floor.  Among 
these  was  a  pocket-book,  which  your  father  picked  up  and  gave 
him  back;  and  he  put  it  in  his  coat -pocket  —  there  was  a  tear  in 
one  (>f  the  sides  of  the  book,  and  through  the  hole  some  bank-notes 
bulged  out.  I  saw  them,  and  so  did  your  father  (don't  move  away, 
Gabriel;  keep  close,  there's  nothing  in  me  to  shrink  from).  Well, 
he  shared  his  food,  like  au  honest  fellow,  with  us  ;  and  then  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket,  and  gave  me  four  or  five  livres,  and  then  lay 
down  before  the  fire  to  go  to  sleep.  As  he  shut  his  eyes,  your  father 
looked  at  me  in  a  way  I  didn't  like.  He'd  been  behaving  very  bit- 
terly and  desperately  toward  us  for  some  time  past,  being  soured 
about  poverty,  and  your  mother's  illness,  and  the  constant  crying 
out  of  you  children  for  more  to  eat.  So  when 'he  told  me  to  go  and 
buy  some  wood,  some  bread,  and  some  wine  with  money  I  had  got, 
I  didn't  like,  somehow,  to  leave  him  alone  with  the  stranger ;  and 
so  made  excuses,  saying  (which  was  true)  that  it  was  too  late  to  buy 
things  in  the  village  that  night.  But  lie  told  me  in  a  rage  to  go 
and  do  as  he  bid  me,  and  knock  the  people  up  if  the  shop  was  shut. 
So  I  went  out,  being  dreadfully  afraid  of  your  father — as  indeed  we 
all  were  at  that  time — but  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  go  far 
from  the  house ;  I  was  afraid  of  something  happening,  though  I 
didn't  dare  to  think  what.  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  I  stole 
back  in  about  ten  minutes  on  tiptoe  to  the  cottage  ;  I  looked  in  at 
the  window,  and  saw — O  God !  forgive  him !  O  God  !  forgive  me ! 
— I  saw — I — more  to  drink,  Gabriel !  I  can't  speak  again — more  to 
drink !" 

The  voices  in  the  next  room  had  ceased ;  but  in  the  minute  of 
silence  which  now  ensued,  Gabriel  heard  his  sisters  kissing  Perrine, 
and  wishing  her  good -night.  They  were  all  three  trying  to  go 
asleep  again. 

"Gabriel,  pray  yourself,  and  teach  your  children  after  you  to 
pray,  that  your  father  may  find  forgiveness  where  he  is  now  gone. 
I  saw  him  as  plainly  as  I  now  see  you.  kneeling  with  his  knife  in 
one  hand  over  the  sleeping  man.  He  was  taking  the  little  book 
with  the  notes  in  it  out  of  the  stranger's  pocket.  He  got  the  book 
into  his  possession,  and  held  it  quito  still  in  his  hand  for  an  instant, 
thinking.  I  believe — oh  no !  no  !  I'm  sure — he  was  repenting ;  I'm 
sure  he  was  going  to  put  the  book  back ;  but  just  at  that  moment 
the  stranger  moved,  and  raised  one  of  his  arms,  as  if  he  was  waking 
up.  Then  the  temptation  of  the  devil  grew  too  strong  for  your  fa- 
ther— I  saw  him  lift  the  hand  with  the  knife  in  it — but  saw  noth- 
ing more.  I  couldn't  look  in  at  the  window  —  I  couldn't  move 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  185 

away — I  couldn't  cry  <>ut  ;  I  stood  with  my  back  turned  toward  tin- 
house,  shivering  all  over,  though  it  was  a  warm  summer-time,  and 
hearing  no  cries,  no  noises  at  aH,  from  the  room  behind  me.  I  was 
loo  frightened  to  know  how  long  it  was  before  the  opening  of  the 
cottage  door  made  me  turn  round;  but  when  I  did,  I  saw  your  fa- 
ther standing  before  me  in  the  yellow  moonlight,  carrying  in  his 
arni^  the  bleeding  body  of  the  poor  lad  who  had  shared  his  food 
with  us  and  slept  on  our  hearth.  Hush !  hush !  Don't  groan  and 
sob  in  that  way!  Stifle  it  with  the  bedclothes.  Hush  !  you'll  wake 
them  in  the  next  room  !" 

"Gabriel  —  Gabriel!"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  behind  the  parti- 
tion. "  What  has  happened  ?  Gabriel !  let  me  come  out  and  be 
\sith  you!" 

"  No !  no  !"  cried  the  old  man,  collecting  the  last  remains  of  his 
strength  in  the  attempt  to  speak  above  the  wind,  which  was  just 
then  howling  at  the  loudest;  "stay  where  you  are  —  don't  speak, 
don't  come  out — I  command  you  !  Gabriel"  (his  voice  dropped  to 
a  faint  whisper),  "  raise  me  up  in  bed — you  must  hear  the  whole  of 
it  now  ;  raise  me ;  I'm  choking  so  that  I  can  hardly  speak.  Keep 
close  and  listen  —  I  can't  say  much  more.  Where  was  I  ? —  Ah, 
your  lather!  He  threatened  to  kill  me  if  I  didn't  swear  to  keep  it 
secret ;  and  in  terror  of  my  life  I  swore.  He  made  me  help  him  to 
carry  the  body — we  took  it  all  across  the  heath — oh  !  horrible,  hor- 
rible, under  the  bright  moon — (lift  me  higher,  Gabriel).  You  know 
the  great  stones  yonder,  set  up  by  the  heathens ;  you  know  the  hol- 
low place,  under  the  stones  they  call  ' The  Merchant's  Table;'  we 
had  plenty  of  room  to  lay  him  in  that,  and  hide  him  so ;  and  then 
we  ran  back  to  the  cottage.  I  never  dared  to  go  near  the  place 
•tfterward;  no,  nor  your  father  either!  (Higher,  Gabriel !  I'm  chok- 
ing again.)  We  burned  the  pocket-book  and  the  knapsack — never 
knew  his  name — we  kept  the  money  to  spend.  (You're  not  lifting 
uie ;  you're  not  listening  close  enough  !)  Your  father  said  it  was  a 
legacy,  when  you  and  your  mother  asked  about  the  money.  (You 
hurt  me,  you  shake  me  to  pieces,  Gabriel,  when  you  sob  like  that.) 
Tt  brought  a  curse  on  us,  the  money;  the  curse  has  drowned  your 
father  and  your  brother;  the  curse  is  killing  me  ;  but  I've  confessed 
— tell  the  priest  I  confessed  before  I  died.  Stop  her;  stop  Perrine! 
I  hear  her  getting  up.  Take  his  bones  away  from  the  Merchant's 
Table,  and  bury  them  for  the  love  of  God !  and  tell  the  priest  (lift 
me  higher,  lift  me  till  I  am  on  my  knees) — if  your  father  was  alive, 
he'd  murder  me;  but  tell  the  priest  —because  of  my  guilty  soul — to 
pray,  and  —  remember  the  Merchant's  Table  —  to  bury,  and  to  pray 

to  pray  always  for — 

As  long  as  Perrine  heard  faintly  the  whispering  of  the  old  man, 
though  no  word  that  he  said  reached  her  ear,  she  shrank  from  open- 

i 


186  AFTER  DARK. 

ing  the  door  in  the  partition.  But,  when  the  whispering  sounds, 
which  terrified  her  she  knew  not  how  or  why,  first  faltered,  then 
ceased  altogether ;  when  she  heard  the  sobs  that  followed  them ; 
and  when  her  heart  told  her  who  was  weeping  in  the  next  room — 
then,  she  began  to  be  influenced  by  a  uew  feeling  which  was  strong- 
er than  the  strongest  fear,  and  she  opened  the  door  without  hesita- 
tion, almost  without  trembling. 

The  coverlet  was  drawn  up  over  the  old  man ;  Gabriel  was  kneel- 
ing by  the  bedside,  with  his  face  hidden.  When  she  spoke  to  him, 
he  neither  answered  nor  looked  at  her.  After  a  while  the  sobs  that 
shook  him  ceased  ;  but  still  he  never  moved,  except  once  when  she 
touched  him,  and  then  he  shuddered — shuddered  under  her  hand ! 
She  called  in  his  little  sisters,  and  they  spoke  to  him,  and  still  he  ut- 
tered no  word  in  reply.  They  wept.  One  by  one,  often  and  often, 
they  entreated  him  with  loving  words ;  but  the  stupor  of  grief  which 
held  him  speechless  and  motionless  was  beyond  the  power  of  human 
tears,  stronger  even  than  the  strength  of  human  love. 

It  was  near  day  -  break,  and  the  storm  was  lulling,  but  still  no 
change  occurred  at  the  bedside.  Once  or  twice,  as  Perrine  knelt 
near  Gabriel,  still  vainly  endeavoring  to  arouse  him  to  a  sense  of  her 
presence,  she  thought  she  heard  the  old  man  breathing  feebly,  and 
stretched  out  her  hand  toward  the  coverlet ;  but  she  could  not  sum- 
mon courage  to  touch  him  or  to  look  at  him.  This  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  been  present  at  a  death-bed ;  the  stillness  in  the  room, 
the  stupor  of  despair  that  had  seized  on  Gabriel,  so  horrified  her, 
that  she  was  almost  as  helpless  as  the  two  children  by  her  side.  It 
was  not  till  the  dawn  looked  in  at  the  cottage  window — so  coldly, 
so  drearily,  and  yet  so  re-assuringly — that  she  began  to  recover  her 
self-possession  at  all.  Then  she  knew  that  her  best  resource  would 
be  to  summon  assistance  immediately  from  the  nearest  house.  While 
she  was  trying  to  persuade  the  two  children  to  remain  alone  in  the 
cottage  with  Gabriel  during  her  temporary  absence,  she  was  startled 
by  the  sound  of  footsteps  outside  the  door.  It  opened,  and  a  man 
appeared  on  the  threshold,  standing  still  there  for  a  moment  in  the 
dim,  uncertain  light. 

She  looked  closer— looked  intently  at  him.  It  was  Francois  Sar- 
zeau  himself! 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  fisherman  was  dripping  with  wet ;  but  his  face,  always  pale 
and  inflexible,  seemed  to  be  but  little  altered  in  expression  by  the 
perils  through  which  he  must  have  passed  during  the  night.  Young 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  187 

Pierre  lay  almost  insensible  in  his  arms.  In  the  astonishment  and 
fright  of  the  first  moment,  Perrine  screamed  as  she  recognized  him. 

"There,  there,  there!"  he  said,  peevishly,  advancing  straight  to 
the  hearth  with  his  burden;  "don't  make  a  noise.  You  never  ex- 
pected to  see  us  alive  again,  I  dare  say.  We  gave  ourselves  up  as 
lost,  and  only  escaped  after  all  by  a  miracle." 

He  laid  the  boy  down  where  he  could  get  the  full  warmth  of  the 
fire ;  and  then,  turning  round,  took  a  wicker-covered  bottle  from  his 
pocket,  and  said,  u  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  brandy —  He  stopped 
suddenly — started— put  down  the  bottle  on  the  bench  near  him — 
and  advanced  quickly  to  the  bedside. 

Perrine  looked  after  him  as  he  went ;  and  saw  Gabriel,  who  had 
risen  when  the  door  was  opened,  moving  back  from  the  bed  as  Fran- 
9ois  approached.  The  young  man's  face  seemed  to  have  been  sud- 
denly struck  to  stone  —  its  blank,  ghastly  whiteness  was  awful  to 
look  at.  He  moved  slowly  backward  and  backward  till  he  came  to 
the  cottage  wall — then  stood  quite  still,  staring  on  his  father  with 
wild,  vacant  eyes,  moving  his  hands  to  and  fro  before  him,  mutter- 
ing. I >ut  never  pronouncing  one  audible  word. 

Francois  did  not  appear  to  notice  his  son ;  he  had  the  coverlet  of 
the  bed  in  his  hand. 

"  Any  thing  the  matter  here  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  drew  it  down. 

Still  Gabriel  could  not  speak.  Perrine  saw  it,  and  answered  for 
him. 

"  Gabriel  is  afraid  that  his  poor  grandfather  is  dead,"  she  whis- 
pered, nervously. 

"  Dead !"  There  was  no  sorrow  in  the  tone  as  he  echoed  the 
word.  "  Was  he  very  bad  in  the  night  before  his  death  happened  ? 
Did  he  wander  in  his  mind  ?  He  has  been  rather  light  -  headed 
lately." 

"  He  was  very  restless,  and  spoke  of  the  ghostly  warnings  that  we 
all  know  of;  he  said  he  saw  and  heard  many  things  which  told  him 
from  the  other  world  that  you  and  Pierre —  Gabriel !"  she  scream- 
ed, suddenly  interrupting  herself,  "  look  at  him  !  Look  at  his  face! 
Your  grandfather  is  not  dead !" 

At  this  moment,  Francois  was  raising  his  father's  head  to  look 
closely  at  him.  A  faint  spasm  had  indeed  passed  over  the  deathly 
face;  the  lips  quivered,  the  jaw  dropped.  Francois  shuddered  as 
he  looked,  and  moved  away  hastily  from  the  bed.  At  the  same  in- 
stant Gabriel  started  from  the  wall;  his  expression  altered,  his  pale 
cheeks  flushed  suddenly,  as  he  snatched  up  the  wicker-cased  bottle, 
and  poured  all  the  little  brandy  that  was  left  in  it  down  his  grand- 
father's throat. 

The  effect  was  nearly  instantaneous ;  the  sinking  vital  forces  ral- 
lied desperately.  The  old  man's  eyes  opened  again,  wandered 


188  A1TER   DARK. 

round  the  room,  then  fixed  themselves  intently  on  Francois  as  he 
stood  near  the  fire.  Trying  and  terrible  as  his  position  was  at  that 
moment,  Gabriel  still  retained  self-possession  enough  to  whisper  a 
few  words  in  Perrine's  ear.  "  Go  back  again  into  the  bedroom,  and 
take  the  children  with  you,"  he  said.  "  We  may  have  something  to 
speak  about  which  you  had  better  not  hear." 

"  Son  Gabriel,  your  grandfather  is  trembling  all  over,"  said  Fran- 
cois. "  If  he  is  dying  at  all,  he  is  dying  of  cold ;  help  me  to  lift  him, 
bed  and  all,  to  the  hearth." 

"  No,  no !  don't  let  him  touch  me  !"  gasped  the  old  man.  "  Don't 
let  him  look  at  me  in  that  way !  Don't  let  him  come  near  me,  Ga- 
briel !  Is  it  his  ghost  ?  or  is  it  himself?" 

As  Gabriel  answered,  he  heard  a  knocking  at  the  door.  His  fa- 
ther opened  it,  and  disclosed  to  view  some  people  from  the  neigh- 
boring fishing  village,  who  had  come — more  out  of  curiosity  than 
sympathy — to  inquire  whether  Francois  and  the  boy  Pierre  had  sur- 
vived the  night.  Without  asking  any  one  to  enter,  the  fisherman 
surlily  and  shortly  answered  the  various  questions  addressed  to  him, 
standing  in  his  own  door-way.  While  he  was  thus  engaged,  Gabri- 
el heard  his  grandfather  muttering  vacantly  to  himself,  "  Last  night 
— how  about  last  night,  grandson ?  What  was  I  talking  about  last 
night  ?  Did  I  say  your  father  was  drowned  ?  Very  foolish  to  say 
he  was  drowned,  and  then  see  him  come  back  alive  again  !  But  it 
wasn't  that — I'm  so  weak  in  my  head,  I  can't  remember.  What  was 
it,  Gabriel?  Something  too  horrible  to  speak  of?  Is  that  what 
you're  whispering  and  trembling  about  ?  I  said  nothing  horrible. 
A  crime !  Bloodshed  !  I  know  nothing  of  any  crime  or  bloodshed 
here — I  must  have  been  frightened  out  of  my  wits  to  talk  in  that 
way !  The  Merchant's  Table  ?  Only  a  big  heap  of  old  stones ! 
What  with  the  storm,  and  thinking  I  was  going  to  die,  and  being 
afraid  about  your  father,  I  must  have  been  light-headed.  Don't 
give  another  thought  to  that  nonsense,  Gabriel !  I'm  better  now. 
We  shall  all  live  to  laugh  at  poor  grandfather  for  talking  nonsense 
about  crime  and  bloodshed  in  his  sleep.  Ah,  poor  old  man — last 
night — light-headed — fancies  and  nonsense  of  an  old  man — why 
don't  you  laugh  at  it?  I'm  laughing — so  light-headed,  so  light — 

He  stopped  suddenly.  A  low  cry,  partly  of  terror  and  partly  of 
pain,  escaped  him  ;  the  look  of  pining  anxiety  and  imbecile  cunning 
which  had  distorted  his  face  while  he  had  been  speaking  faded 
from  it  forever.  He  shivered  a  little,  breathed  heavily  once  or  twice, 
then  became  quite  still. 

Had  he  died  with  a  falsehood  on  his  lips  ? 

Gabriel  looked  round  and  saw  that  the  cottage  door  was  closed, 
and  that  his  father  was  standing  against  it.  How  long  he  had  oc- 
cupied that  position,  how  many  of  the  old  man's  last  words  he  had 


GABRIEL'S  MABRIAGE.  189 

heard,  it  was  impossible  to  conjecture,  but  there  was  a  lowering  sus- 
picion in  his  harsh  face  as  he  now  looked  away  from  the  corpse  to 
his  son  which  made  Gabriel  shudder;  and  the  first  question  that 
he  asked,  on  once  more  approaching  the  bedside,  was  expressed  in 
tones  which,  quiet  as  they  were,  had  a  fearful  meaning  in  them. 

"  What  did  your  grandfather  talk  about  last  night  ?"  he  asked. 

Gabriel  did  not  answer.  All  that  he  had  heard,  all  that  he  had 
sefcn,  all  the  misery  and  horror  that  might  yet  be  to  come,  had  stun- 
ned his  mind.  The  unspeakable  dangers  of  his  present  position 
were  too  tremendous  to  be  realized.  He  could  only  feel  them  vague- 
ly in  the  weary  torpor  that  oppressed  his  heart ;  while  in  every  oth- 
er direction  the  use  of  his  faculties,  physical  and  mental,  seemed  to 
have  suddenly  and  totally  abandoned  him. 

"  Is  your  tongue  wounded,  son  Gabriel,  as  well  as  your  arm  ?"  his 
father  went  on,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  I  come  back  to  you,  saved 
by  a  miracle ;  and  you  never  speak  to  me.  Would  you  rather  I 
had  died  than  the  old  man  there  ?  He  can't  hear  you  now — why 
shouldn't  you  tell  me  what  nonsense  he  was  talking  last  night  ? 
You  won't  ?  I  say  you  shall !"  (He  crossed  the  room  and  put  his 
back  to  the  door.)  "  Before  either  of  us  leave  this  place,  you  shall 
confess  it !  You  know  that  my  duty  to  the  Church  bids  me  to  go 
at  once  and  tell  the  priest  of  your  grandfather's  death.  If  I  leave 
that  duty  unfulfilled, remember  it  is  through  your  fault!  You  keep 
me  here — for  here  I  stop  till  I'm  obeyed.  Do  you  hear  that,  idiot? 
Speak  !  Speak  instantly,  or  you  shall  repent  it  to  the  day  of  your 
death  !  I-  ask  again — what  did  your  grandfather  say  to  you  when 
he  was  wandering  in  his  mind  last  night  ?" 

"  He  spoke  of  a  crime  committed  by  another,  and  guiltily  kept 
set-ret  by  him,"  answered  Gabriel,  slowly  and  sternly.  "And  this 
morning  he  denied  his  own  words  with  his  last  living  breath.  But 
last  night,  if  he  spoke  the  truth — " 

"  The  truth  !"  echoed  Francois.     "  What  truth  ?" 

He  stopped,  his  eyes  fell,  then  turned  toward  the  corpse.  For  a 
few  minutes  he  stood  steadily  contemplating  it;  breathing  quickly, 
antl  drawing  his  hand  several  times  across  his  forehead.  Then  he 
tared  his  son  once  more.  In  that  short  interval  he  had  become  in 
outward  appearance  a  changed  man :  expression,  voice,  and  manner, 
all  were  altered. 

M  Heaven  forgive  me!"  he  went  on, "  but  I  could  almost  laugh  at 
myself,  at  this  solemn  moment,  for  having  spoken  and  acted  just 
now  so  much  like  a  fool !  Denied  his  words,  did  he  ?  Poor  old 
man  !  they  say  sense  often  comes  back  to  light-headed  people  just 
'  efore  death  :  and  he  is  a  proof  of  it.  The  fact  is,  Gabriel,  my  own 
wits  must  have  been  a  little  shaken — and  no  wonder — by  what  I 
Went  through  last  night,  and  what  I  have  come  home  to  this  morn- 


190  AFTEE  DARK. 

ing.  As  if  you,  or  any  body,  could  ever  really  give  serious  credit 
to  the  wandering  speeches  of  a  dying  old  man  !  (Where  is  Perrine  ? 
Why  did  you  send  her  away  ?)  I  don't  wonder  at  your  still  looking 
a  little  startled,  and  feeling  low  in  your  mind,  and  all  that — for  you've 
had  a  trying  night  of  it,  trying  in  every  way.  He  must  have  been 
a  good  deal  shaken  in  his  wits  last  night,  between  fears  about  him- 
self and  fears  about  me.  (To  think  of  my  being  angry  with  you, 
Gabriel,  for  being  a  little  alarmed — very  naturally — by  an  old  man's 
queer  fancies !)  Come  out,  Perrine — come  out  of  the  bedroom  when- 
ever you  are  tired  of  it :  you  must  learn  sooner  or  later  to  look  at 
death  calmly.  Shake  hands,  Gabriel ;  and  let  us  make  it  up,  and 
say  no  more  about  what  has  passed.  You  won't  ?  Still  angry  with 
me  for  what  I  said  to  you  just  now  ?  Ah  !  you'll  think  better  about 
it  by  the  time  I  return.  Come  out,  Perrine ;  we've  no  secrets  here." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?"  asked  Gabriel,  as  he  saw  his  father 
hastily  open  the  door. 

"  To  tell  the  priest  that  one  of  his  congregation  is  dead,  and  to 
have  the  death  registered,"  answered  Francois.  "  These  are  my  du- 
ties, and  must  be  performed  before  I  take  any  rest." 

He  went  out  hurriedly  as  he  said  these  words.  Gabriel  almost 
trembled  at  himself  when  he  found  that  he  breathed  more  freely, 
that  he  felt  less  horribly  oppressed  both  in  mind  and  body,  the  mo- 
ment his  father's  back  was  turned.  Fearful  as  thought  was  now,  it 
was  still  a  change  for  the  better  to  be  capable  of  thinking  at  all. 
Was  the  behavior  of  his  father  compatible  with  innocence  ?  Could 
the  old  man's  confused  denial  of  his  own  words  in  the  morning  and 
in  the  presence  of  his  son,  be  set  for  one  instant  against  the  circum- 
stantial confession  that  he  had  made  during  the  night  alone  with 
his  grandson  ?  These  were  the  terrible  questions  which  Gabriel 
now  asked  himself,  and  which  he  shrank  involuntarily  from  answer- 
ing. And  yet  that  doubt,  the  solution  of  which  would,  one  way  or 
the  other,  irrevocably  affect  the  whole  future  of  his  life,  must  sooner 
or  later  be  solved  at  any  hazard ! 

Was  there  any  way  of  setting  it  at  rest  ?  Yes,  one  way — to  go 
instantly,  while  his  father  was  absent,  and  examine  the  hollow  place 
under  the  Merchant's  Table.  If  his  grandfather's  confession  had 
really  been  made  while  he  was  in  possession  of  his  senses,  this  place 
(which  Gabriel  knew  to  be  covered  in  from  wind  and  weather)  had 
never  been  visited  since  the  commission  of  the  crime  by  the  perpe- 
trator, or  by  his  unwilling  accomplice;  though  time  had  destroyed 
all  besides,  the  hair  and  the  bones  of  the  victim  would  still  be  left 
to  bear  witness  to  the  truth — if  truth  had  indeed  been  spoken.  As 
this  conviction  grew  on  him,  the  young  man's  cheek  paled ;  and  he 
stopped  irresolute  half-way  between  the  hearth  and  the  door.  Then 
he  looked  down  doubtfully  at  the  corpse  on  the  bed,  and  then  there 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  191 

came  upon  him  suddenly  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  A  wild,  feverish 
impatience  t<>  know  the  worst  without  another  instant  of  delay  pos- 
sc-M-d  him.  Only  telling  Perrine  that  he  should  be  back  soon,  and 
tliat  she  must  watch  by  the  dead  in  his  absence,  he  left  the  cottage 
at  once,  without  waiting  to  hear  her  reply,  even  without  looking 
back  as  he  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

There  were  two  tracks  to  the  Merchant's  Table.  One,  the  longer 
of  the  two,  by  the  coast  cliffs  ;  the  other  across  the  heath.  But  this 
la«tcr  path  was  also,  for  some  little  distance,  the  path  which  led  to 
the  village  and  the  church.  He  was  afraid  of  attracting  his  father's 
attention  here,  so  he  took  the  direction  of  the  coast.  At  one  spot 
the  track  trended  inland,  winding  round  some  of  the  many  Druid 
monuments  .-cattered  over  the  country.  This  place  was  on  high 
ground,  and  commanded  a  view,  at  no  great  distance,  of  the  path 
leading  to  the  village,  just  wl  ere  it  branched  off  from  the  heathy 
ridge  which  ran  in  the  direction  of  the  Merchant's  Table.  Here 
Gabriel  descried  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  with  his  back  toward 
the  coast. 

This  figure  was  too  far  off  to  be  identified  with  absolute  certain- 
ty, but  it  looked  like,  and  might  well  be,  Francois  Sarzeau.  Who- 
ever he  was,  the  man  was  evidently  uncertain  which  way  he  should 
proceed.  When  he  moved  forward,  it  was  first  to  advance  several 
paces  toward  the  Merchant's  Table;  then  he  went  back  again  to- 
ward the  distant  cottages  and  the  church.  Twice  he  hesitated 
thus ;  the  second  time  pausing  long  before  he  appeared  finally  to 
take  the  way  that  led  to  the  village. 

Leaving  the  post  of  observation  among  the  stones,  at  which  he 
had  instinctively  halted  for  some  minutes  past,  Gabriel  now  pro- 
ceeded on  his  own  path.  Could  this  man  really  be  his  father?  And 
if  it  were  so,  why  did  Francois  Sarzeau  only  determine  to  go  to  the 
village  where  his  business  lay,  after  having  twice  vainly  attempted 
to  persevere  in  taking  the  exactly  opposite  direction  of  the  Mer- 
chant's Table?  Did  he  really  desire  to  go  there?  Had  he  heard 
the  name  mentioned,  when  the  old  man  referred  to  it  in  his  dying 
words  ?  And  had  he  failed  to  summon  courage  enough  to  make 
all  -ate  by  removing —  This  last  question  was  too  horrible  to  be 
pursued;  Gabriel  stifled  it  affrightedly  in  his  own  heart  as  he 
went  on. 

He  reached  the  great  Druid  monument  without  meeting  a  living 
soul  on  his  way.  The  sun  was  rising,  and  the  mighty  storm-clouds 
of  the  night  were  parting  asunder  wildly  over  the  whole  eastward 
hori/on.  The  waves  still  leaped  and  foamed  gloriously  :  but  the 
gale  had  sunk  to  a  keen,  fresh  breeze.  As  Gabriel  looked  up.  and 
saw  how  brightly  the  promise  of  a  lovely  day  was  written  in  the 
heavens,  he  trembled  as  he  thought  of  the  search  which  he  was  now 


192  AFTER    DARK. 

about  to  make.  The  sight  of  the  fair,  fresh  sunrise  jarred  horribly 
with  the  suspicions  of  committed  murder  that  were  rankling  foully 
in  his  heart.  But  he  knew  that  his  errand  must  be  performed,  and 
he  nerved  himself  to  go  through  with  it;  for  he  dared  not  return 
to  the  cottage  until  the  mystery  had  been  cleared  up  at  once  and  for- 
ever. 

The  Merchant's  Table  was  formed  by  two  huge  stones  resting  hor- 
izontally on  three  others.  In  the  troubled  times  of  more  than  half 
a  century  ago,  regular  tourists  were  unknown  among  the  Druid 
monuments  of  Brittany ;  and  the  entrance  to  the  hollow  place  under 
the  stones — since  often  visited  by  strangers — was  at  this  time  nearly 
choked  up  by  brambles  and  weeds.  Gabriel's  first  look  at  this  tan- 
gled nook  of  briers  convinced  him  that  the  place  had  not  been  en- 
tered, perhaps  for  years,  by  any  living  being.  Without  allowing 
himself  to  hesitate  (for  he  felt  that  the  slightest  delay  might  be  fa- 
tal to  his  resolution),  he  passed  as  gently  as  possible  through  the 
brambles,  and  knelt  down  at  the  low,  dusky,  irregular  entrance  of 
the  hollow  place  under  the  stones. 

His  heart  throbbed  violently,  his  breath  almost  failed  him;  but  he 
forced  himself  to  crawl  a  few  feet  into  the  cavity,  and  then  groped 
with  his  hand  on  the  ground  about  him. 

He  touched  something !  Something  which  it  made  his  flesh  creep 
to  handle  ;  something  which  he  would  fain  have  dropped,  but  which 
he  grasped  tight  in  spite  of  himself.  He  drew  back  into  the  outer 
air  and  sunshine.  Was  it  a  human  bone  ?  No !  he  had  been  the 
dupe  of  his  own  morbid  terror— he  had  only  taken  up  a  fragment  of 
dried  wood ! 

Feeling  shame  at  such  self-deception  as  this,  he  was  about  to 
throw  the  wood  from  him  before  he  re-entered  the  place,  when  an- 
other idea  occurred  to  him. 

Though  it  was  dimly  lighted  through  one  or  two  chinks  in  the 
stones,  the  far  part  of  the  interior  of  the  cavity  was  still  too  dusky 
to  admit  of  perfect  examination  by  the  eye,  even  on  a  bright  sun- 
shiny morning.  Observing  this,  he  took  out  the  tinder  -  box  and 
matches,  which,  like  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  district,  he  always 
carried  about  with  him  for  the  purpose  of  lighting  his  pipe,  deter- 
mining to  use  the  piece  of  wood  as  a  torch  which  might  illuminate 
the  darkest  corner  of  the  place  when  he  next  entered  it.  Fortunate- 
ly the  wood  had  remained  so  long  and  had  been  preserved  so  dry  in 
its  sheltered  position,  that  it  caught  fire  almost  as  easily  as  a  piece 
of  paper.  The  moment  it  was  fairly  aflame  Gabriel  went  into  the 
cavity,  penetrating  at  once — this  time— to  its  farthest  extremity. 

He  remained  among  the  stones  long  enough  for  the  wood  to  burn 
down  nearly  to  his  hand.  When  he  came  out,  and  flung  the  burn- 
ing fragment  from  him,  his  face  was  flushed  deeply,  his  eyes  spark- 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  193 

led.  He  leaped  carelessly  on  to  the  heath,  over  the  bushes  through 
which  he  hud  threaded  his  way  so  warily  but  a  few  minutes  before, 
exclaiming,  "I  may  marry  Perrine  with  a  clear  conscience  now;  lam 
the  son  of  as  honest  a  man  as  there  is  in  Brittany !" 

He  had  closely  examined  the  cavity  in  every  corner,  and  not  the 
slightest  sign  that  any  dead  body  had  ever  been  laid  there  was  vis- 
ible in  the  hollow  place  under  the  Merchant's  Table. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  I  MAY  marry  Perrine  with  a  clear  conscience  now !" 

There  are  some  parts  of  the  world  where  it  would  be  drawing  no 
natural  picture  of  human  nature  to  represent  a  son  as  believing  con- 
scientiously that  an  offense  against  life  and  the  laws  of  hospitality, 
secretly  committed  by  his  father,  rendered  him,  though  innocent  of 
all  participation  in  it,  unworthy  to  fulfill  his  engagement  with  his 
affianced  wife.  Among  the  simple  inhabitants  of  Gabriel's  province, 
however,  such  acuteness  of  conscientious  sensibility  as  this  was  no 
extraordinary  exception  to  all  general  rules.  Ignorant  and  supersti- 
tious as  they  might  be,  the  people  of  Brittany  practiced  the  duties 
of  hospitality  as  devoutly  as  they  practiced  the  duties  of  the  nation- 
al religion.  The  presence  of  the  stranger-guest,  rich  or  poor,  was 
a  sacred  presence  at  their  hearths.  His  safety  was  their  especial 
charge,  his  property  their  especial  responsibility.  They  might  be 
half  starved,  but  they  were  ready  to  share  the  last  crust  with  him, 
nevertheless,  as  they  would  share  it  with  their  own  children. 

Any  outrage  on  the  virtue  of  hospitality,  thus  born  and  bred  in 
the  people,  was  viewed  by  them  with  universal  disgust,  and  pun- 
ished with  universal  execration.  This  ignominy  was  uppermost  in 
Gabriel's  thoughts  by  the  side  of  his  grandfather's  bed;  the  dread 
of  this  worst  dishonor,  which  there  was  no  wiping  out,  held  him 
speechless  before  Perrine,  shamed  and  horrified  him  so  that  he  felt 
unworthy  to  look  her  in  the  face:  and  when  the  result  of  his  search 
at  the  Merchant's  Table  proved  the  absence  there  of  all  evidence  of 
the  crime  spoken  of  by  the  old  man,  the  blessed  relief,  the  absorb- 
ing triumph  of  that  discovery,  was  expressed  entirely  in  the  one 
thought  which  had  prompted  his  first  joyful  words :  He  could  mar- 
ry Perrine  with  a  clear  conscience,  for  he  was  the  son  of  an  honest 
man ! 

When  he  returned  to  the  cottage,  Francois  had  not  come  back. 
Perrine  was  astonished  at  the  change  in  Gabriel's  manner;  even 
Pierre  and  the  children  remarked  it.  Rest  and  warmth  had  by  this 
time  so  far  recovered  the  younger  brother,  that  he  was  able  to  give 

8* 


194  AFTER   DARK. 

some  account  of  the  perilous  adventures  of  the  night  at  sea.  They 
were  still  listening  to  the  boy's  narrative  when  Francois  at  last  re- 
turned. It  was  now  Gabriel  who  held  out  his  hand,  and  made  the 
first  advances  toward  reconciliation. 

To  his  utter  amazement,  his  father  recoiled  from  him.  The  va- 
riable temper  of  Frangois  had  evidently  changed  completely  during 
his  absence  at  the  village.  A  settled  scowl  of  distrust  darkened  his 
face  as  he  looked  at  his  son. 

"  I  never  shake  hands  with  people  who  have  once  doubted  me," 
he  exclaimed,  loudly  and  irritably ;  "  for  I  always  doubt  them  for- 
ever after.  You  are  a  bad  son !  You  have  suspected  your  father 
of  some  infamy  that  you  dare  not  openly  charge  him  with,  on  no 
other  testimony  than  the  rambling  nonsense  of  a  half-witted,  dying 
old  man.  Don't  speak  to  me  !  I  won't  hear  you  !  An  innocent  man 
and  a  spy  are  bad  company.  Go  and  denounce  me,  you  Judas  in 
disguise !  I  don't  care  for  your  secret  or  for  you.  What's  that  girl 
Perrine  doing  here  still  ?  Why  hasn't  she  gone  home  long  ago  ? 
The  priest's  coming  ;  we  don't  want  strangers  in  the  house  of  death. 
Take  her  back  to  the  farm-house,  and  stop  there  with  her,  if  you 
like ;  nobody  wants  you  here !" 

There  was  something  in  the  manner  and  look  of  the  speaker  as 
he  uttered  these  words,  so  strange,  so  sinister,  so  indescribably  sug- 
gestive of  his  meaning  much  more  than  he  said,  that  Gabriel  felt 
his  heart  sink  within  him  instantly  ;  and  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment this  fearful  question  forced  itself  irresistibly  on  his  mind: 
might  not  his  father  have  followed  him  to  the  Merchant's  Table  ? 

Even  if  he  had  been  desired  to  speak,  he  could  not  have  spoken 
now,  while  that  question  and  the  suspicion  that  it  brought  with  it 
were  utterly  destroying  all  the  re -assuring  hopes  and  convictions 
of  the  morning.  The  mental  suffering  produced  by -the  sudden 
change  from  pleasure  to  pain  in  all  his  thoughts,  reacted  on  him 
physically.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  stifling  in  the  air  of  the  cottage, 
in  the  presence  of  his  father;  and  when  Perrine  hurried  on  her 
walking  attire,  and  with  a  face  which  alternately  flushed  and  turn- 
ed pale  with  every  moment,  approached  the  door,  he  went  out  with 
her  as  hastily  as  if  he  had  been  flying  from  his  home.  Never  had 
the  fresh  air  and  the  free  daylight  felt  like  heavenly  and  guardian 
influences  to  him  until  now ! 

He  could  comfort  Perrine  under  his  father's  harshness,  he  could 
assure  her  of  his  own  affection,  which  no  earthly  influence  could 
change,  while  they  walked  together  toward  the  farm-house ;  but  he 
could  do  no  more.  He  durst  not  confide  to  her  the  subject  that 
was  uppermost  in  his  mind ;  of  all  human  beings  she  was  the  last 
to  whom  he  could  reveal  the  terrible  secret  that  was  festering  at  his 
heart.  As  soon  as  they  got  within  sight  of  the  farm-house,  Gabriel 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  195 

stopped ;  and,  promising  to  see  her  again  soon,  took  leave  of  Perrine 
with  a.-sumed  ease  in  his  manner  and  with  real  despair  in  his  heart. 
Whatever  the  poor  girl  might  think  of  it,  he  felt,  at  that  moment, 
that  lie  had  not  courage  to  face  her  father,  and  hear  him  talk  hap- 
pily and  pleasantly,  as  his  custom  was,  of  Perrine's  approaching 
marriage. 

Left  to  himself,  Gabriel  wandered  hither  and  thither  over  the  open 
heath,  neither  knowing  nor  caring  in  what  direction  he  turned  his 
steps.  The  doubts  about  his  father's  innocence  which  had  been 
dissipated  by  his  visit  to  the  Merchant's  Table,  that  fathers  own 
language  and  manner  had  now  revived — had  even  confirmed,  though 
he  dared  not  yet  acknowledge  so  much  to  himself.  It  was  terrible 
enough  to  be  obliged  to  admit  that  the  result  of  his  morning's 
search  was,  after  all,  not  conclusive — that  the  mystery  was,  in  very 
truth,  not  yet  cleared  up.  The  violence  of  his  father's  last  words 
of  distrust;  the  extraordinary  and  indescribable  changes  in  his  fa- 
ther's manner  while  uttering  them — what  did  these  things  mean  ? 
Guilt  or  innocence  ?  Again,  was  it  any  longer  reasonable  to  doubt 
the  death-bed  confession  made  by  his  grandfather  ?  Was  it  not,  on 
the  contrary,  far  more  probable  that  the  old  man's  denial  in  the 
morning  of  his  own  words  at  night  had  been  made  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  panic  terror,  when  his  moral  consciousness  was  bewil- 
dered, and  his  intellectual  faculties  were  sinking?  The  longer  Ga- 
briel thought  of  these  questions,  the  less  competent — possibly  also 
the  less  willing — he  felt  to  answer  them.  Should  he  seek  advice 
from  others  wiser  than  he  ?  No ;  not  while  the  thousandth  part  of 
a  chance  remained  that  his  father  was  innocent. 

This  thought  was  still  in  his  mind,  when  he  found  himself  once 
more  in  sight  of  his  home.  He  was  still  hesitating  near  the  door, 
when  he  saw  it  opened  cautiously.  His  brother  Pierre  looked  out, 
and  then  c^me  running  toward  him.  "  Come  in,  Gabriel ;  oh,  do 
come  in  !"  said  the  boy,  earnestly.  "  We  are  afraid  to  be  alone 
with  father.  He's  been  beating  us  for  talking  of  you." 

Gabriel  went  iiR  His  father  looked  up  from  the  hearth  where  he 
was  sitting,  muttered  the  word  "  Spy  !"  and  made  a  gesture  of  con- 
tempt, but  did  not  address  a  word  directly  to  his  son.  The  hours 
passed  on  in  silence;  afternoon  waned  into  evening,  and  evening 
into  night ;  and  still  he  never  spoke  to  any  of  his  children.  Soon 
after  it  was  dark,  he  went  out,  and  took  his  net  with  him,  saying 
that  it  was  better  to  be  alone  on  the  sea  than  in  the  house  with  a 
spy. 

When  he  returned  the  next  morning  there  was  no  change  in  him. 
Days  passed— weeks,  months  even  elapsed,  and  still,  though  his  man 
ner  insensibly  became  what  it  used  to  be  toward  his  other  children, 
it  never  altered  toward  his  eldest  son.  At  the  rare  periods  when. 


196  AFTER  DARK. 

they  now  met,  except  when  absolutely  obliged  to  speak,  he  pre- 
served total  silence  in  his  intercourse  with  Gabriel.  He  would 
never  take  Gabriel  out  with  him  in  the  boat ;  he  would  never  sit 
alone  with  Gabriel  in  the  house ;  he  would  never  eat  a  meal  with 
Gabriel ;  he  would  never  let  the  other  children  talk  to  him  about 
Gabriel  ;  and  lie  would  never  hear  a  word  in  expostulation,  a  word 
in  reference  to  any  thing  his  dead  father  had  said  or  done  on  the 
night  of  the  storm,  from  Gabriel  himself. 

The  young  man  pined  and  changed,  so  that  even  Perrine  hardly 
knew  him  again,  under  this  cruel  system  of  domestic  excommunica- 
tion ;  under  the  wearing  influence  of  the  one  unchanging  doubt 
which  never  left  him ;  and,  more  than  all,  under  the  incessant  re- 
proaches of  his  own  conscience,  aroused  by  the  sense  that  he  was 
evading  a  responsibility  which  it  was  his  solemn,  his  immediate 
duty  to  undertake.  But  no  sting  of  conscience,  no  ill  treatment  at 
home,  and  no  self-reproaches  for  failing  in  his  duty  of  confession  as 
a  good  Catholic,  were  powerful  enough  in  their  influence  over  Ga- 
briel to  make  him  disclose  the  secret,  under  the  oppression  of  which 
his  very  life  was  wasting  away.  He  knew  that  if  he  once  revealed 
it,  whether  his  father  was  ultimately  proved  to  be  guilty  or  inno- 
cent, there  would  remain  a  slur  and  a  suspicion  on  the  family,  and 
on  Perrine  besides,  from  her  approaching  connection  with  it,  which 
in  their  time  and  in  their  generation  could  never  be  removed.  The 
reproach  of  the  world  is  terrible  even  in  the  crowded  city,  where 
many  of  the  dwellers  in  our  abiding-place  are  strangers  to  us — but 
it  is  far  more  terrible  in  the  country,  where  none  near  us  are  stran- 
gers, where  all  talk  of  us  and  know  of  us,  where  nothing  intervenes 
between  us  and  the  tyranny  of  the  evil  tongue.  Gabriel  had  not 
courage  to  face  this,  and  dare  the  fearful  chance  of  life-long  igno- 
miny— no,  not  even  to  serve  the  sacred  interests  of  justice,  of  atone- 
ment, and  of  truth. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHILE  Gabriel  still  remained  prostrated  under  the  affliction  that 
was  wasting  his  energies  of  body  and  mind,  Brittany  was  visited  by 
a  great  public  calamity,  in  which  all  private  misfortunes  were  over- 
whelmed for  a  while. 

It  was  now  the  time  when  the  ever-gathering  storm  of  the  French 
Revolution  had  risen  to  its  hurricane  climax.  Those  chiefs  of  the 
new  republic  were  in  power  whose  last,  worst  madness  it  was  to 
decree  the  extinction  of  religion  and  the  overthrow  of  every  thing 
that  outwardly  symbolized  it  throughout  the  whole  of  the  country 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  197 

that  they  governed.  Already  this  decree  had  been  executed  to  the 
letter  in  and  around  Paris;  and  now  the  soldiers  of  the  Republic 
were  on  their  way  to  Brittany,  headed  by  commanders  whose  com- 
mission was  to  root  out  the  Christian  religion  in  the  last  and  the 
surest  of  the  strongholds  still  left  to  it  in  France. 

These  men  began  their  work  in  a  spirit  worthy  of  the  worst  of 
their  superiors  who  had  sent  them  to  do  it.  They  gutted  churches, 
*hey  demolished  chapels,  they  overthrew  road-side  crosses  wherever 
they  found  them.  The  terrible  guillotine  devoured  human  lives  in 
the  villages  of  Brittany  as  it  had  devoured  them  in  the  streets  of 
Paris ;  the  musket  and  the  sword,  in  highway  and  by-way,  wreaked 
havoc  on  the  people — «ven  on  women  and  children  kneeling  in  the 
act  of  prayer;  the  priests  were  tracked  night  and  day  from  one  hid- 
ing-place, where  they  still  offered  up  worship,  to  another,  and  were 
killed  as  soon  as  overtaken — every  atrocity  was  committed  in  every 
district;  but  the  Christian  religion  still  spread  wider  than  the 
widest  bloodshed ;  still  sprang  up  with  ever-renewed  vitality  from 
under  the  very  feet  of  the  men  whose  vain  fury  was  powerless  to 
trample  it  down.  Everywhere  the  people  remained  true  to  their 
Faith;  everywhere  the  priests  stood  firm  by  them  in  their  sorest 
need.  The  executioners  of  the  Republic  had  been  sent  to  make 
Brittany  a  country  of  apostates;  they  did  their  worst,  and  left  it  a 
country  of  martyrs. 

One  evening,  while  this  frightful  persecution  was  still  raging,  Ga- 
briel happened  to  be  detained  unusually  late  at  the  cottage  of  Per- 
riue's  father.  He  had  lately  spent  much  of  his  time  at  the  farm- 
house ;  it  was  his  only  refuge  now  from  that  place  of  suffering,  of 
silence,  and  of  secret  shame,  which  he  had  once  called  home!  Just 
as  he  had  taken  leave  of  Perrine  for  the  night,  and  was  about  to 
open  the  farm-house  door,  her  father  stopped  him,  and  pointed  to  a 
chair  in  the  chimney-corner.  "Leave  us  alone,  my  dear,"  said  tin- 
old  man  to  his  daughter;  "I  want  to  speak  to  Gabriel.  You  can 
go  to  your  mother  in  the  next  room." 

The  words  which  Pfcre  Bonan — as  he  was  called  by  the  neighbors 
— had  now  to  say  in  private  were  destined  to  lead  to  very  unex- 
pected events.  After  referring  to  the  alteration  which  had  appeared 
of  late  in  Gabriel's  manner,  the  old  man  began  by  asking  him,  sor- 
rowfully but  not  suspiciously,  whether  he  still  preserved  his  old  af- 
fection for  Perrine.  On  receiving  an  eager  answer  in  the  affirmative, 
Pere  Bonan  then  referred  to  the  persecution  still  raging  through 
the  country,  and  to  the  consequent  possibility  that  he,  like  others 
of  his  countrymen,  might  yet  be  called  to  suffer,  and  perhaps  to  die, 
for  the  cause  of  his  religion.  If  this  last  act  of  self  sacrifice  were 
required  of  him,  Perrine  would  be  left  unprotected,  unless  her  af- 
fianced husband  performed  his  promise  to  her,  and  assumed,  with- 


198  AFTER  DARK. 

out  delay,  the  position  of  her  lawful  guardian.  "  Let  me  know  that 
you  will  do  this,"  concluded  the  old  man ;  "  I  shall  be  resigned  to 
all  that  may  be  required  of  me.  if  I  can  only  know  that  I  shall  not 
die  leaving  Perrine  unprotected."  Gabriel  gave  the  promise — gave 
it  with  his  whole  heart.  As  he  took  leave  of  Pere  Bonan,  the  old 
man  said  to  him : 

"Come  here  to-morrow;  I  shall  know  more  then  than  I  know 
now — I  shall  be  able  to  fix  with  certainty  the  day  for  the  fulfillment 
of  your  engagement  with  Perrine." 

Why  did  Gabriel  hesitate  at  the  farm-house  door,  looking  back 
on  Pere  Bonan  as  though  he  would  fain  say  something,  and  yet  not 
speaking  a  word  ?  Why,  after  he  had  gone  out  and  had  walked 
onward  several  paces,  did  he  suddenly  stop,  return  quickly  to  the 
farm-house,  stand  irresolute  before  the  gate,  and  then  retrace  his 
steps,  sighing  heavily  as  he  went,  but  never  pausing  again  on  his 
homeward  way?  Because  the  torment  of  his  horrible  secret  had 
grown  harder  to  bear  than  ever,  since  he  had  given  the  promise 
that  had  been  required  of  him.  Because,  while  a  strong  impulse 
moved  him  frankly  to  lay  bare  his  hidden  dread  and  doubt  to  the 
father  whose  beloved  daughter  was  soon  to  be  his  wife,  there  was  a 
yet  stronger  passive  influence  which  paralyzed  on  his  lips  the  terri- 
ble confession  that  he  knew  not  whether  he  was  the  son  of  an  hon- 
est man,  or  the  son  of  an  assassin  and  a  robber.  Made  desperate  by 
his  situation,  he  determined,  while  he  hastened  homeward,  to  risk 
the  worst,  and  ask  that  fatal  question  of  his  father  in  plain  words. 
But  this  supreme  trial  for  parent  and  child  was  not  to  be.  When 
he  entered  the  cottage,  Francois  was  absent.  He  had  told  the 
younger  children  that  he  should  not  be  home  again  before  noon 
on  the  next  day. 

Early  in  the  morning  Gabriel  repaired  to  the  farm  -  house,  as  he 
had  been  bidden.  Influenced  by  his  love  for  Perrine,  blindly  con- 
fiding in  the  faint  hope  (which,  in  despite  of  heart  and  conscience, 
he  still  forced  himself  to  cherish)  that  his  father  might  be  innocent, 
he  now  preserved  the  appearance  at  least  of  perfect  calmness.  "  If  I 
tell  my  secret  to  Perrine's  father,  I  risk  disturbing  in  him  that  con- 
fidence in  the  future  safety  of  his  child  for  which  I  am  his  present 
and  only  warrant."  Something  like  this  thought  was  in  Gabriel's 
mind,  as  he  took  the  hand  of  Pere  Bonan,  and  waited  anxiously  to 
hear  what  was  required  of  him  on  that  day. 

"We  have  a  short  respite  from  danger,  Gabriel,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  News  has  come  to  me  that  the  spoilers  of  our  churches 
and  the  murderers  of  our  congregations  have  been  stopped  on  their 
way  hitherward  by  tidings  which  have  reached  them  from  another 
district.  This  interval  of  peace  and  safety  will  be  a  short  one — we 
must  take  advantage  of  it  while  it  is  yet  ours.  My  name  is  among 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  199 

the  names  on  the  list  of  the  denounced.  If  the  soldiers  of  the  Re- 
public find  me  here — but  we  will  say  nothing  more  of  this ;  it  is  of 
Perrine  and  of  you  that  I  must  now  speak.  On  this  very  evening 
your  marriage  may  be  solemnized  with  all  the  wonted  rites  of  our 
holy  religion,  and  the  blessing  may  be  pronounced  over  you  by  the 
lips  of  a  priest.  This  evening,  therefore,  Gabriel,  you  must  become 
the  husband  and  the  protector  of  Perrine.  Listen  to  me  attentively, 
and  I  will  tell  you  how." 

This  was  the  substance  of  what  Gabriel  now  heard  from  Pere 
Bonan : 

Not  very  long  before  the  persecutions  broke  out  in  Brittany,  a 
priest,  known  generally  by  the  name  of  Father  Paul,  was  appointed 
to  a  curacy  in  one  of  the  northern  districts  of  the  province.  He 
fulfilled  all  the  duties  of  his  station  in  such  a  manner  as  to  win  the 
confidence  and  affection  of  every  member  of  his  congregation,  and 
was  often  spoken  of  with  respect,  even  in  parts  of  the  country  dis- 
tant from  the  scene  of  his  labors.  It  was  not,  however,  until  the 
troubles  broke  out,  and  the  destruction  and  bloodshed  began,  that 
he  became  renowned  far  and  wide,  from  one  end  of  Brittany  to  an- 
other. From  the  date  of  the  very  first  persecutions  the  name  of 
Father  Paul  was  a  rallying- cry  of  the  hunted  peasantry;  he  was 
their  great  encouragement  under  oppression,  their  example  in  dan- 
ger, their  last  and  only  consoler  in  the  hour  of  death.  .  Wherever 
havoc  and  ruin  raged  most  fiercely,  wherever  the  pursuit  Was  hottest 
and  the  slaughter  most  cruel,  there  the  intrepid  priest  was  sure  to 
be  seen  pursuing  his  sacred  duties  in  defiance  of  every  peril.  His 
hair-breadth  escapes  from  death ;  his  extraordinary  re-appearances 
in  parts  of  the  country  where  no  one  ever  expected  to  see  him 
again,  were  regarded  by  the  poorer  classes  with  superstitious  awe. 
Wherever  Father  Paul  appeared,  with  his  black  dress,  his  calm  face, 
and  the  ivory  crucifix  which  he  always  carried  in  his  hand,  the  peo- 
ple reverenced  him  as  more  than  mortal;  and  grew  at  last  to  be- 
lieve that,  single-handed,  he  would  successfully  defend  his  religion 
against  the  armies  of  the  Republic.  But  their  simple  confidence  in 
his  powers  of  resistance  was  soon  destined  to  be  shaken.  Fresh  re- 
enforcements  arrived  in  Brittany,  and  overran  the  whole  province 
from  one  end  to  the  other.  One  morning,  after  celebrating  service 
in  a  dismantled  church,  and  after  narrowly  escaping  with  his  life 
from  those  who  pursued  him,  the  priest  disappeared.  Secret  in- 
quiries were  made  after  him  in  all  directions ;  but  he  was  heard  of 
no  more. 

Many  weary  days  had  passed,  and  the  dispirited  peasantry  had 
already  mourned  him  as  dead,  when  some  fishermen  on  the  northern 
coast  observed  a  ship  of  light  burden  in  the  offing,  making  signals 
to  the  shore.  They  put  off  to  her  in  their  boats ;  and  on  reaching 


200  AFTER   DARK. 

the  deck  saw  standing  before  them  the  well-remembered  figure  of 
Father  Paul. 

The  priest  had  returned  to  his  congregations ;  and  had  founded 
the  new  altar  that  they  were  to  worship  at  on  the  deck  of  the  ship ! 
Razed  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  their  church  had  not  been  destroy- 
ed— for  Father  Paul  and  the  priests  who  acted  with  him  had  given 
that  church  a  refuge  on  the  sea.  Henceforth,  their  children  could 
still  be  baptized,  their  sons  and  daughters  could  still  be  married, 
the  burial  of  their  dead  could  still  be  solemnized,  under  the  sanction 
of  the  old  religion  for  which,  not  vainly,  they  had  suffered  so  pa- 
tiently and  so  long. 

Throughout  the  remaining  time  of  trouble  the  services  were  un- 
interrupted on  board  the  ship.  A  code  of  signals  was  established 
by  which  those  on  shore  were  always  enabled  to  direct  their  brethren 
at  sea  toward  such  parts  of  the  coast  as  happened  to  be  uninfest- 
ed  by  the  enemies  of  their  worship.  On  the  morning  of  Gabriel's 
visit  to  the  farm-house  these  signals  had  shaped  the  course  of  the 
ship  toward  the  extremity  of  the  peninsula  of  Quiberon.  The  peo- 
ple of  the  district  were  all  prepared  to  expect  the  appearance  of  the 
vessel  some  time  in  the  evening,  and  had  their  boats  ready  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  to  put  off,  and  attend  the  service.  At  the  conclusion 
of  this  service  Pere  Bonan  had  arranged  that  the  marriage  of  his 
daughter  and  Gabriel  was  to  take  place. 

They  waited  for  evening  at  the  farm-house.  A  little  before  sunset 
the  ship  was  signaled  as  in  sight ;  and  then  Pere  'Bonan  and  his 
wife,  followed  by  Gabriel  and  Perrine,  set  forth  over  the  heath  to 
the  beach.  With  the  solitary  exception  of  Francois  Sarzeau,  the 
whole  population  of  the  neighborhood  was  already  assembled  there, 
Gabriel's  brother  and  sisters  being  among  the  number. 

It  was  the  calmest  evening  that  had  been  known  for  months. 
There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  lustrous  sky— not  a  ripple  on  the  still 
surface  of  the  sea.  The  smallest  children  were  suffered  by  their 
mothers  to  stray  down  on  the  beach  as  they  pleased ;  for  the  waves 
of  the  great  ocean  slept  as  tenderly  and  noiselessly  on  their  sandy 
bed  as  if  they  had  been  changed  into  the  waters  of  an  inland  lake. 
Slow,  almost  imperceptible,  was  the  approach  of  the  ship  —  there 
was  hardly  a  breath  of  wind  to  carry  her  on — she  was  just  drifting 
gently  with  the  landward  set  of  the  tide  at  that  hour,  while  her  sails 
hung  idly  against  the  masts.  Long  after  the  sun  had  gone  down, 
the  congregation  still  waited  and  watched  on  the  beach.  The  moon 
and  stars  were  arrayed  in  their  glory  of  the  night  before  the  ship 
dropped  anchor.  Then  the  muffled  tolling  of  a  bell  came  solemnly 
across  the  quiet  waters ;  and  then,  from  every  creek  along  the  shore, 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  black  forms  of  the  fishermen's 
boats  shot  out  swift  and  stealthy  into  the  shining  sea. 


GABRIEI?S   MABRIAGB.  201 

By  the  time  the  boats  had  arrived  alongside  of  the  ship,  the  lamp 
hail  been  kindled  before  the  altar,  and  its  flame  was  gleaming  red 
and  dull  in  the  radiant  moonlight.  Two  of  the  priests  on  board 
were  clothed  in  their  robes  of  office,  and  were  waiting  in  their  ap- 
pointed places  to  begin  the  service.  But  there  was  a  third,  dressed 
only  in  the  ordinary  attire  of  his  calling,  who  mingled  with  the  con- 
gregation, and  spoke  a  few  words  to  each  of  the  persons  composing 
it,  as,  one  by  one,  they  mounted  the  sides  of  the  ship.  Those  who 
had  never  seen  him  before  knew  by  the  famous  ivory  crucifix  in  his 
hand  that  the  priest  who  received  them  was  Father  Paul.  Gabriel 
looked  at  this  man,  whom  he  now  beheld  for  the  first  time,  with  a 
mixture  of  astonishment  and  awe ;  for  he  saw  that  the  renowned 
chief  of  the  Christians  of  Brittany  was,  to  all  appearance,  but  little 
older  than  himself. 

The  expression  on  the  pale,  calm  face  of  the  priest  was  so  gentle 
and  kind,  that  children  just  able  to  walk  tottered  up  to  him,  and 
held  familiarly  by  the  skirts  of  his  black  gown,  whenever  his  clear 
blue  eyes  rested  on  theirs,  while  he  beckoned  them  to  his  side.  No 
one  would  ever  have  guessed  from  the  countenance  of  Father  Paul 
what  deadly  perils  he  had  confronted,  but  for  the  scar  of  a  sabre- 
wound,  as  yet  hardly  healed,  which  ran  across  his  forehead.  That 
wound  had  been  dealt  while  lie  was  kneeling  before  the  altar  in  the 
last  church  in  Brittany  which  had  escaped  spoliation.  He  would 
have  died  where  he  knelt,  but  for  the  peasants  who  were  praying 
with  him,  and*vlm.  unarmed  as  they  were,  threw  themselves  like 
tigers  on  the  soldiery,  and  at  awful  sacrifice  of  their  own  lives  saved 
the  life  of  their  priest.  There  was  not  a  man  now  on  board  the  ship 
who  would  have  hesitated,  had  the  occasion  called  for  it  again,  to 
have  rescued  him  in  the  same  way. 

The  service  began.  Since  the  days  when  the  primitive  Christians 
worshiped  amidst  the  caverns  of  the  earth,  can  any  service  be  im- 
agined nobler  in  itself,  or  sublimer  in  the  circumstances  surrounding 
it.  than  that  which  was  now  offered  up  ?  Here  was  no  artificial 
pomp,  no  gaudy  profusion  of  ornament,  no  attendant  grandeur  of 
man's  creation.  All  around  this  church  spread  the  hushed  and  aw- 
ful majesty  of  the  tranquil  sea.  The  roof  of  this  cathedral  was  the 
immeasurable  heaven,  the  pure  moon  its  one  great  light,  the  count- 
less glories  of  the  stars  its  only  adornment.  Here  were  no  hired 
singers  or  rich  priest-princes ;  no  curious  sight-seers,  or  careless  lov- 
ers of  sweet  sounds.  This  congregation  and  they  who  had  gathered 
it  together,  were  all  poor  alike,  all  persecuted  alike,  all  worshiping 
alike,  to  the  overthrow  of  their  worldly  interests,  and  at  the  immi- 
nent peril  of  thc'ir  lives.  How  brightly  and  tenderly  the  moonlight 
shone  upon  the  altar  and  the  people  before  it !  how  solemnly  and 
divinely  the  deep  harmonies,  as  they  chanted  the  penitential  Psalms, 


202  AFTER  DARK. 

mingled  with  the  hoarse  singing  of  the  freshening  night-breeze  in 
the  rigging  of  the  ship  !  how  sweetly  the  still  rushing  murmur  of 
many  voices,  as  they  uttered  the  responses  together,  now  died  away, 
and  now  rose  again  softly  into  the  mysterious  night ! 

Of  all  the  members  of  the  congregation — young  or  old — there  was 
but  one  over  whom  that  impressive  service  exercised  no  influence 
of  consolation  or  of  peace ;  that  one  was  Gabriel.  Often,  through- 
out the  day,  his  reproaching  conscience  had  spoken  within  him 
again  and  again.  Often,  when  he  joined  the  little  assembly  on  the 
beach,  he  turned  away  his  face  in  secret  shame  and  apprehension 
from  Perrine  and  her  father.  Vainly,  after  gaining  the  deck  of  the 
ship,  did  he  try  to  meet  the  eye  of  Father  Paul  as  frankly,  as  readi- 
ly, and  as  affectionately  as  others  met  it.  The  burden  of  conceal- 
ment seemed  too  heavy  to  be  borne  in  the  presence  of  the  priest — 
and  yet,  torment  as  it  was,  he  still  bore  it !  But  when  he  knelt  with 
the  rest  of  the  congregation  and  saw  Perrine  kneeling  by  his  side — 
when  he  felt  the  calmness  of  the  solemn  night  and  the  still  sea  fill- 
ing his  heart — when  the  sounds  of  the  first  prayers  spoke  with  a 
dread  spiritual  language  of  their  own  to  his  soul — then  the  remem- 
brance of  the  confession  which  he  had  neglected,  and  the  terror  of 
receiving  unprepared  the  sacrament  which  he  knew  would  be  of- 
fered to  him — grew  too  vivid  to  be  endured :  the  sense  that  he  mer- 
ited no  longer,  though  once  worthy  of  it,  the  confidence  in  his  per- 
fect truth  and  candor  placed  in  him  by  the  woman  with  whom  he 
was  soon  to  stand  before  the  altar,  overwhelmed  hfhi  with  shame : 
the  mere  act  of  kneeling  among  that  congregation,  the  passive  ac- 
complice by  his  silence  and  secrecy,  for  aught  he  knew  to  the  con- 
trary, of  a  crime  which  it  was  his  bounden  duty  to  denounce,  ap- 
palled him  as  if  he  had  already  committed  sacrilege  that  could  nev- 
er be  forgiven.  Tears  flowed  down  his  cheeks,  though  he  strove  to 
repress  them :  sobs  burst  from  him,  though  he  tried  to  stifle  them. 
He  knew  tfiat  others  besides  Perrine  were  looking  at  him  in  aston- 
ishment and  alarm ;  but  he  could  neither  control  himself,  nor  move 
to  leave  his  place,  nor  raise  his  eyes  even — until  suddenly  he  felt  a 
hand  laid  on  his  shoulder.  That  touch,  slight  as  it  was,  ran  through 
him  instantly.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  Father  Paul  standing  by  his 
side. 

Beckoning  him  to  follow,  and  signing  to  the  congregation  not  to 
suspend  their  devotions,  he  led  Gabriel  out  of  the  assembly — then 
paused  for  a  moment,  reflecting — then  beckoning  him  again,  took 
him  into  the  cabin  of  the  ship,  and  closed  the  door  carefully. 

"  You  have  something  on  your  mind,"  he  said,  simply  and  quiet- 
ly, taking  the  young  man  by  the  hand.  "  I  may  be  able  to  relieve 
you,  if  you  tell  me  what  it  is." 

As  Gabriel  heard  these  gentle  words,  and  saw,  by  the  light  of  a 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  203 

lamp  which  burned  before  a  cross  fixed  against  the  wall,  the  sad 
kindness  of  expression  with  which  the  priest  was  regarding  him, 
the  oppression  that  had  lain  so  long  on  his  heart  seemed  to  leave  it 
in  an  instant.  The  haunting  fear  of  ever  divulging  his  fatal  suspi- 
cions and  his  fatal  secret  had  vanished,  as  it  were,  at  the  touch  of 
Father  Paul's  hand.  For  the  first  time  he  now  repeated  to  another 
ear — the  sounds  of  prayer  and  praise  rising  grandly  the  while  from 
the  congregation  above  —  his  grandfather's  death -bed  confession, 
word  for  word  almost,  as  he  had  heard  it  in  the  cottage  on  the 
night  of  the  storm. 

Once,  and  once  only,  did  Father  Paul  interrupt  the  narrative, 
which  in  whispers  was  addressed  to  him.  Gabriel  had  hardly  re- 
peated the  first  two  or  three  sentences  of  his  grandfather's  confes- 
sion, when  the  priest,  in  quick,  altered  tones,  abruptly  asked  him  his 
name  and  place  of  abode. 

As  the  question  was  answered,  Father  Paul's  calm  face  became 
suddenly  agitated ;  but  the  next  moment,  resolutely  resuming  his 
self-possession,  he  bowed  his  head,  as  a  sign  that  Gabriel  was  to 
continue ;  clasped  his  trembling  hands,  and  raising  them  as  if  in  si- 
lent prayer,  fixed  his  eyes  intently  on  the  cross.  He  never  looked 
away  from  it  while  the  terrible  narrative  proceeded.  But  when  Ga- 
briel described  his  search  at  the  Merchant's  Table ;  and,  referring  to 
his  father's  behavior  since  that  time,  appealed  to  the  priest  to  know 
whether  he  might,  even  yet,  in  defiance  of  appearances,  be  still  fil- 
ially justified  in  doubting  whether  the  crime  had  been  really  perpe- 
trated— then  Father  Paul  moved  near  to  him  once  more,  and  spoke 
again. 

"  Compose  yourself,  and  look  at  me,"  he  said,  with  his  former  sad 
kindness  of  voice  and  manner.  "  I  can  end  your  doubts  forever. 
Gabriel,  your  father  was  guilty  in  intention  and  in  act ;  but  the  vic- 
tim of  his  crime  still  lives.  I  can  prove  it." 

Gabriel's  heart  beat  wildly ;  a  deadly  coldness  crept  over  him  as 
he  saw  Father  Paul  loosen  the  fastening  of  his  cassock  round  the 
throat. 

At  that  instant  the  chanting  of  the  congregation  above  ceased ; 
and  then  the  sudden  and  awful  stillness  was  deepened  rather  than 
interrupted  by  the  faint  sound  of  one  voice  praying.  Slowly  and 
with  trembling  fingers  the  priest  removed  the  band  round  his  neck 
— paused  a  little — sighed  heavily — and  pointed  to  a  scar  which  was 
now  plainly  visible  on  one  side  of  his  throat.  He  said  something  at 
the  same  time;  but  the  bell  above  tolled  while  he  spoke.  It  was 
the  signal  of  the  elevation  of  the  Host.  Gabriel  felt  an  arm  passed 
round  him,  guiding  him  to  his  knees,  and  sustaining  him  from  sink- 
ing to  the  floor.  For  one  moment  longer  he  was  conscious  that  the 
bell  had  stopped,  that  there  was  dead  silence,  that  Father  Paul  was 


20  \  AFTER  DAEK. 

kneeling  by  him  beneath  the  cross,  with  bowed  head — then  all  ob- 
jects around  vanished ;  and  he  saw  and  knew  nothing  more. 

When  he  recovered  his  senses,  he  was  still  in  the  cabin ;  the  man 
whose  life  his  father  had  attempted  was  bending  over  him,  and 
sprinkling  water  on  his  face ;  and  the  clear  voices  of  the  women 
and  children  of  the  congregation  were  joining  the  voices  of  the  men 
in  singing  the  Agnus  Dei. 

"  Look  up  at  me  without  fear,  Gabriel,"  said  the  priest.  "  I  de- 
sire not  to  avenge  injuries:  I  visit  not  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the 
child.  Look  up,  and  listen!  I  have  strange  things  to  speak  of; 
and  I  have  a  sacred  mission  to  fulfill  before  the  morning,  in  which 
you  must  be  my  guide." 

Gabriel  attempted  to  kneel  and  kiss  his  hand,  but  Father  Paul 
stopped  him,  and  said,  pointing  to  the  cross :  "  Kneel  to  that — not 
to  me ;  not  to  your  fellow-mortal,  and  your  friend  —  for  I  will  be 
your  friend,  Gabriel ;  believing  that  God's  mercy  has  ordered  it  so. 
And  now  listen  to  me,"  he  proceeded,  with  a  brotherly  tenderness 
in  his  manner  which  went  to  Gabriel's  heart.  "  The  service  is  near- 
ly ended.  What  I  have  to  tell  you  must  be  told  at  once ;  the  errand 
on  which  you  will  guide  me  must  be  performed  before  to-morrow 
dawns.  Sit  here  near  me,  and  attend  to  what  I  now  say  !" 

Gabriel  obeyed ;  Father  Paul  then  proceeded  thus  : 

"  I  believe  the  confession  made  to  you  by  your  grandfather  to 
have  been  true  in  every  particular.  On  the  evening  to  which  he  re- 
ferred you,  I  approached  your  cottage,  as  he  said,  for  the  purpose 
of  asking  shelter  for  the  night.  At  that  period  I  had  been  studying 
hard  to  qualify  myself  for  the  holy  calling  which  I  now  pursue ;  and, 
on  the  completion  of  my  studies,  had  indulged  in  the  recreation  of 
a  tour  on  foot  through  Brittany,  by  way  of  innocently  and  agreeably 
occupying  the  leisure  time  then  at  my  disposal,  before  I  entered  the 
priesthood.  When  I  accosted  your  father  I  had  lost  my  way,  had 
been  walking  for  many  hours,  and  was  glad  of  any  rest  that  I  could 
get  for  the  night.  It  is  unnecessary  to  pain  you  now,  by  reference 
to  the  events  which  followed  my  entrance  under  your  father's  roof. 
I  remember  nothing  that  happened  from  the  time  when  I  lay  down 
to  sleep  before  the  fire,  until  the  time  when  I  recovered  my  senses 
at  the  place  which  you  call  the  Merchant's  Table.  My  first  sensa- 
tion was  that  of  being  moved  into  the  cold  air ;  when  I  opened  my 
eyes  I  saw  the  great  Druid  stones  rising  close  above  me,  and  two 
men  on  either  side  of  me  rifling  my  pockets.  They  found  nothing 
valuable  there,  and  were  about  to  leave  me  where  I  lay,  when  1 
gathered  strength  enough  to  appeal  to  their  mercy  through  their 
cupidity.  Money  was  not  scarce  with  me  then,  and  I  was  able  to 
offer  them  a  rich  reward  (which  they  ultimately  received  as  I  had 
promised)  if  they  would  take  me  to  any  place  where  I  could  get 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  205 

shelter  and  medical  help.  I  supposed  they  inferred  by  my  language 
and  accent  —  perhaps  also  by  the  linen  I  wore,  which  they  exam- 
ined closely — that  I  belonged  to  the  higher  ranks  of  the  commu- 
nity, in  spite  of  the  plainness  of  my  outer  garments;  and  might, 
then- fore,  be  in  a  position  to  make  good  my  promise  to  them.  I 
heard  one  say  to  the  other,  '  Let  us  risk  it ;'  and  then  they  took  me 
in  their  arms,  carried  me  down  to  a  boat  on  the  beach,  and  rowed 
to  a  vessel  in  the  offing.  The  next  day  they  disembarked  me  at 
Paimbceuf,  where  I  got  the  assistance  which  I  so  much  needed.  I 
learned,  through  the  confidence  they  were  obliged  to  place  in  me 
in  order  to  give  me  the  means  of  sending  them  their  promised  re- 
ward, that  these  men  were  smugglers,  and  that  they  were  in  the 
luiliit  of  using  the  cavity  in  which  I  had  been  laid  as  a  place  of 
concealment  for  goods,  and  for  letters  of  advice  to  their  accomplices. 
This  accounted  for  their  finding  me.  As  to  my  wound,  I  was  in- 
formed by  the  surgeon  who  attended  me  that  it  had  missed  being 
inflicted  in  a  mortal  part  by  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  inch,  and  that, 
as  it  was,  nothing  but  the  action  of  the  night  air  in  coagulating  the 
blood  over  the  place  had,  in  the  first  instance,  saved  my  life.  To 
be  brief,  I  recovered  after  a  long  illness,  returned  to  Paris,  and  was 
called  to  the  priesthood.  The  will  of  my  superiors  obliged  me  to 
perform  the  first  duties  of  my  vocation  in  the  great  city ;  but  my 
own  wish  was  to  be  appointed  to  a  cure  of  souls  in  your  province, 
Gabriel.  Can  you  imagine  why  ?" 

The  answer  to  this  question  was  in  Gabriel's  heart ;  but  he  was 
still  too  deeply  awed  and  affected  by  what  he  had  heard  to  give  it 
utterance. 

"  I  must  tell  you,  then,  what  my  motive  was,"  said  Father  Paul. 
"  You  must  know  first  that  I  uniformly  abstained  from  disclosing  to 
any  one  where  and  by  whom  my  life  had  been  attempted.  I  kept 
this  a  secret  from  the  men  who  rescued  me — from  the  surgeon — 
from  my  own  friends  even.  My  reason  for  such  a  proceeding  was,  I 
would  fain  believe,  a  Christian  reason.  I  hope  I  had  always  felt  a 
sincere  and  humble  desire  to  prove  myself,  by  the  help  of  God, 
worthy  of  the  sacred  vocation  to  which  I  was  destined.  But  my 
miraculous  escape  from  death  made  an  impression  on  my  mind, 
which  gave  me  another  and  an  infinitely  higher  view  of  this  voca- 
tion— the  view  which  I  have  since  striven,  and  shall  always  strive 
for  the  future,  to  maintain.  As  I  lay,  during  the  first  days  of  my  re- 
covery, examining  my  own  heart,  and  considering  in  what  manner 
it  would  be  my  duty  to  act  toward  your  father  when  I  was  restored 
to  health,  a  thought  came  into  my  mind  which  calmed,  comforted, 
and  resolved  all  my  doubts.  I  said  within  myself, '  In  a  few  months 
more  I  shall  be  called  to  be  one  of  the  chosen  ministers  of  God.  If 
I  am  worthy  of  my  vocation,  my  first  desire  toward  this  man  who 


206  AFTER  DARK.  . 

has  attempted  to  take  my  life  should  be,  not  to  know  that  human 
justice  has  overtaken  him,  but  to  know  that  he  has  truly  and  relig- 
iously repented  and  made  atonement  for  his  guilt.  To  such  repent- 
ance and  atonement  let  it  be  my  duty  to  call  him ;  if  he  reject  that 
appeal,  and  be  hardened  only  the  more  against  me  because  I  have 
forgiven  him  my  injuries,  then  it  will  be  time  enough  to  denounce 
him  for  his  crimes  to  his  fellow-men.  Surely  it  must  be  well  for  me, 
here  and  hereafter,  if  I  begin  my  career  in  the  holy  priesthood  by 
helping  to  save  from  hell  the  soul  of  the  man  who,  of  all  others,  has 
most  cruelly  wronged  me.'  It  was  for  this  reason,  Gabriel — it  was 
because  I  desired  to  go  straightway  to  your  father's  cottage,  and  re- 
claim him  after  he  had  believed  me  to  be  dead — that  I  kept  the 
secret  and  entreated  of  my  superiors  that  I  might  be  sent  to  Brit- 
tany. But  this,  as  I  have  said,  was  not  to  be  at  first,  and  when  my 
desire  was  granted,  my  place  was  assigned  me  in  a  far  district. 
The  persecution  under  which  we  still  suffer  broke  out ;  the  designs 
of  my  life  were  changed;  my  own  will  became  no  longer  mine  to 
guide  me.  But,  through  sorrow  and  suffering,  and  danger  and 
bloodshed,  I  am  now  led,  after  many  days,  to  the  execution  of  that 
first  purpose  which  I  formed  on  entering  the  priesthood.  Gabriel, 
when  the  service  is  over,  and  the  congregation  are  dispersed,  you 
must  guide  me  to  the  door  of  your  father's  cottage." 

He  held  up  his  hand,  in  sign  of  silence,  as  Gabriel  was  about  to 
answer.  Just  then  the  officiating  priests  above  were  pronouncing 
the  final  benediction.  When  it  was  over,  Father  Paul  opened  the 
cabin  door.  As  he  ascended  the  steps,  followed  by  Gabriel,  Pere 
Bonan  met  them.  The  old  man  looked  doubtfully  and  searchingly 
on  his  future  son-in-law,  as  he  respectfully  whispered  a  few  words 
in  the  ear  of  the  priest.  Father  Paul  listened  attentively,  answered 
in  a  whisper,  and  then  turned  to  Gabriel,  first  begging  the  few  peo- 
ple near  them  to  withdraw  a  little. 

"I  have  been  asked  whether  there  is  any  impediment  to  your 
marriage,"  he  said,  "  and  have  answered  that  there  is  none.  What 
you  have  said  to  me  has  been  said  in  confession,  and  is  a  secret  be- 
tween us  two.  Remember  that ;  and  forget  not,  at  the  same  time, 
the  service  which  I  shall  require  of  you  to-night,  after  the  marriage- 
ceremony  is  over.  Where  is  Perrine  Bonan  ?"  he  added,  aloud, 
looking  round  him.  Perrine  came  forward.  Father  Paul  took  her 
hand,  and  placed  it  in  Gabriel's.  "  Lead  her  to  the  altar  steps,"  he 
said,  "  and  wait  there  for  me." 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  later;  the  boats  had  left  the  ship's 
side  ;  the  congregation  had  dispersed  over  the  face  of  the  country 
— but  still  the  vessel  remained  at  anchor.  Those  who  were  left  in 
her  watched  the  land  more  anxiously  than  usual ;  for  they  knew 
that  Father  Paul  had  risked  meeting  the  soldiers  of  the  Republic  by 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  207 

trusting  himself  on  shore.  A  boat  was  awaiting  his  return  on  the 
lu'ai -li;  half  of  the  crew,  armed,  being  posted  as  scouts  in  various 
directions  on  the  high  land  of  the  heath.  They  would  have  fol- 
lowed and  guarded  the  priest  to  the  place  of  his  destination ;  but 
he  forbade  it;  and,  leaving  them  abruptly,  walked  swiftly  onward 
with  one  young  man  only  for  his  companion. 

•  laliriel  had  committed  his  brother  and  his  sisters  to  the  charge 
of  Perrine.  They  were  to  go  to  the  farm-house  that  night  with  his 
newly-married  wife  and  her  father  and  mother.  Father  Paul  had 
desired  that  this  might  be  done.  When  Gabriel  and  he  were  left 
alone  to  follow  the  path  which  led  to  the  fisherman's  cottage,  the 
priest  never  spoke  while  they  walked  on — never  looked  aside  either 
to  the  right  or  the  left — always  held  his  ivory  crucifix  clasped  to  his 
breast.  They  arrived  at  the  door. 

"  Knock,''  whispered  Father  Paul  to  Gabriel,  "  and  then  wait  here 
with  me." 

The  door  was  opened.  On  a  lovely  moonlight  night  Francois 
Sarzeau  had  stood  on  that  threshold,  years  since,  with  a  bleeding 
body  in  his  arms.  On  a  lovely  moonlight  night  he  now  stood  there 
again,  confronting  the  very  man  whose  life  he  had  attempted,  and 
knowing  him  not. 

Father  Paul  advanced  a  few  paces,  so  that  the  moonlight  fell 
fuller  on  his  features,  and  removed  his  hat. 

Francois  Sarzeau  looked,  started,  moved  one  step  back,  then  stood 
motionless  and  perfectly  silent,  while  all  traces  of  expression  of  any 
kind  suddenly  vanished  from  his  face.  Then  the  calm,  clear  tones 
of  the  priest  stole  gently  on  the  dead  silence.  "  I  bring  a  message 
of  peace  and  forgiveness  from  a  guest  of  former  years,"  he  said ;  and 
pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  the  place  where  he  had  been  wounded  in 
the  neck. 

For  one  moment,  Gabriel  saw  his  father  trembling  violently  from 
head  to  foot — then  his  limbs  steadied  again — stiffened  suddenly,  as 
if  struck  by  catalepsy.  His  lips  parted,  but  without  quivering;  his 
eyes  glared,  but  without  moving  in  their  orbits.  The  lovely  moon- 
light itself  looked  ghastly  and  horrible,  shining  on  the  supernatural 
panic  deformity  of  that  face !  Gabriel  turned  away  his  head  in  ter- 
ror. He  heard  the  voice  of  Father  Paul  saying  to  him :  "  Wait  here 
till  I  come  back."  Then  there  was  an  instant  of  silence  again — then 
a  low  groaning  sound  that  seemed  to  articulate  the  name  of  God ; 
a  sound  unlike  his  father's  voice,  unlike  any  human  voice  he  had 
ever  heard — and  then  the  noise  of  a  closing  door.  He  looked  up, 
and  saw  that  he  was  standing  alone  before  the  cottage. 

Once,  after  an  interval,  he  approached  the  window. 

He  just  saw  through  it  the  hand  of  the  priest  holding  on  high  th« 
ivory  crucifix  ;  but  stopped  not  to  see  more,  for  he  heard  such  words, 


208  AFTER  DARK. 

such  sounds,  as  drove  him  back  to  his  former  place.  There  he  staid, 
until  the  noise  of  something  falling  heavily  within  the  cottage  struck 
on  his  ear.  Again  he  advanced  toward  the  door;  heard  Father  Paul 
praying;  listened  for  several  minutes;  then  heard  a  moaning  voice, 
now  joining  itself  to  the  voice  of  the  priest,  now  choked  in  sobs  and 
bitter  wailing.  Once  more  he  went  back  out  of  hearing,  and  stirred 
not  again  from  his  place.  He  waited  a  long  and  a  weary  time  there 
— so  long  that  one  of  the  scouts  on  the  lookout  came  toward  him, 
evidently  suspicious  of  the  delay  in  the  priest's  return.  He  waved 
the  man  back,  and  then  looked  again  toward  the  door.  At  last  he 
saw  it  open — saw  Father  Paul  approach  him,  leading  Fra^ois  Sar- 
zeau  by  the  hand. 

The  fisherman  never  raised  his  downcast  eyes  to  his  son's  face ; 
tears  trickled  silently  over-  his  cheeks ;  he  followed  the  hand  that 
led  him,  as  a  little  child  might  have  followed  it,  listening  anxiously 
and  humbly  at  the  priest's  side  to  every  word  that  he  spoke. 

"  Gabriel,"  said  Father  Paul,  in  a  voice  which  trembled  a  little 
for  the  first  time  that  night — "  Gabriel,  it  has  pleased  God  to  grant 
the  perfect  fulfillment  of  the  purpose  which  brought  me  to  this 
place;  I  tell  you  this,  as  all  that  you  need — as  all,  I  believe,  that 
you  would  wish — to  know  of  what  has  passed  while  you  have  been 
left  waiting  for  me  here.  Such  words  as  I  have  now  to  speak  to 
you  are  spoken  by  your  father's  earnest  desire.  It  is  his  own  wish 
that  I  should  communicate  to  you  his  confession  of  having  secretly 
followed  you  to  the  Merchant's  Table,  and  of  having  discovered  (as 
you  discovered)  that  no  evidence  of  his  guilt  remained  there.  This 
admission,  he  thinks,  will  be  enough  to  account  for  his  conduct  to- 
ward yourself  from  that  time  to  this.  I  have  next  to  tell  you  (also 
at  your  father's  desire)  that  he  has  promised  in  my  presence,  and 
now  promises  again  in  yours,  sincerity  of  repentence  in  this  man- 
ner: When  the  persecution  of  our  religion  has  ceased — as  cease  it 
will,  and  that  speedily,  be  assured  of  it — he  solemnly  pledges  him- 
self henceforth  to  devote  his  life,  his  strength,  and  what  worldly 
possessions  he  may  have,  or  may  acquire,  to  the  task  of  re-erecting 
and  restoring  the  road-side  crosses  which  have  been  sacrilegiously 
overthrown  and  destroyed  in  his  native  province,  and  to  doing  good, 
go  where  he  may.  I  have  now  said  all  that  is  required  of  me,  and 
may  bid  you  farewell — bearing  with  me  the  happy  remembrance  that 
I  have  left  a  father  and  son  reconciled  and  restored  to  each  other. 
May  God  bless  and  prosper  you,  and  those  dear  to  you,  Gabriel ! 
May  God  accept  your  father's  repentance,  and  bless  him  also  through- 
out his  future  life !" 

He  took  their  hands,  pressed  them  long  and  warmly,  then  turned 
and  walked  quickly  down  the  path  which  led  to  the  beach.  Gabriel 
dared  not  trust  himself  yet  to  speak  ;  but  he  raised  his  arm,  and  put 


GABRIEL'S  MARRIAGE.  209 

it  gently  round  his  father's  neck.  The  two  stood  together  so,  looking 
out  dimly  through  the  tears  that  filled  their  eyes  to  the  sea.  They 
saw  the  boat  put  off  in  the  bright  track  of  the  moonlight,  and  reach 
the  vessel's  side ;  they  watched  the  spreading  of  the  sails,  and  fol- 
lowed the  slow  course  of  the  ship  till  she  disappeared  past  a  distant 
headland  from  sight. 

After  that,  they  went  into  the  cottage  together.    They  knew  it  not 
then,  but  they  had  seen  the  last,  in  this  world,  of  Father  Paul. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TIIK  events  foretold  by  the  good  priest  happened  sooner  even  than 
IK-  had  anticipated.  A  new  government  ruled  the  destinies  of  France, 
and  the  persecution  ceased  in  Brittany. 

Among  other  propositions  which  were  then  submitted  to  the  par- 
liament, was  one  advocating  the  restoration  of  the  road-side  crosses 
throughout  the  province.  It  was  found,  however,  on  inquiry,  that 
these  crosses  were  to  be  counted  by  thousands,  and  that  the  mere 
cost  of  wood  required  to  re-erect  them  necessitated  an  expenditure 
of  money  which  the  bankrupt  nation  could  ill  afford  to  spare. 
While  this  project  was  under  discussion,  and  before  it  was  finally 
rejected,  one  man  had  undertaken  the  task  which  the  Government 
shrank  from  attempting.  When  Gabriel  left  the  cottage,  taking  his 
brother  and  sisters  to  live  with  his  wife  and  himself  at  the  farm- 
house. Fran9ois  Sarzeau  left  it  also,  to  perform  in  highway  and  by- 
way his  promise  to  Father  Paul.  For  months  and  months  he  la- 
bored without  intermission  at  his  task;  still,  always  doing  good, 
and  rendering  help  and  kindness  and  true  charity  to  all  whom  he 
could  serve.  He  walked  many  a  weary  mile,  toiled  through  many 
a  hard  day's  work,  humbled  himself  even  to  beg  of  others,  to  get 
wood  enough  to  restore  a  single  cross.  No  one  ever  heard  him 
complain,  ever  saw  him  impatient,  ever  detected  him  in  faltering  at 
his  task.  The  shelter  in  an  outhouse,  the  crust  of  bread  and  drink 
of  water,  which  he  could  always  get  from  the  peasantry,  seemed  to 
suffice  him.  Among  the  people  who  watched  his  perseverance,  a 
belief  began  to  gain  ground  that  his  life  would  be  miraculously  pro- 
longed until  he  had  completed  his  undertaking  from  one  end  of 
Brittany  to  the  other.  But  this  was  not  to  be. 

lie  was  seen  one  cold  autumn  evening,  silently  and  steadily  at 
work  as  usual,  setting  up  a  new  cross  on  the  site  of  one  which  had 
been  shattered  to  splinters  in  the  troubled  times.  In  the  morning 
he  was  found  lying  dead  beneath  the  sacred  symbol  which  his  own 
hands  had  completed  and  erected  in  its  place  during  the  night. 


210  AFTER  DARK. 

They  buried  him  where  he  lay ;  and  the  priest  who  consecrated  the 
ground  allowed  Gabriel  to  engrave  his  father's  epitaph  in  the  wood 
of  the  cross.  It  was  simply  the  initial  letters  of  the  dead  man's 
name,  followed  by  this  inscription :  "  Pray  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul :  he  died  penitent,  and  the  doer  of  good  works." .  . 

Once,  and  once  only,  did  Gabriel  hear  any  thing  of  Father  Paul. 
The  good  priest  showed,  by  writing  to  the  farm-house,  that  he  had 
not  forgotten  the  family  so  largely  indebted  to  him  for  their  happi- 
ness. The  letter  was  dated  "  Rome."  Father  Paul  said  that  such 
services  as  he  had  been  permitted  to  render  to  the  Church  in  Brit- 
tany had  obtained  for  him  a  new  and  a  far  more  glorious  trust  than 
any  he  had  yet  held.  He  had  been  recalled  from  his  curacy,  and 
appointed  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  mission  which  was  shortly  to  be 
dispatched  to  convert  the  inhabitants  of  a  savage  and  far  distant 
land  to  the  Christian  faith.  He  now  wrote,  as  his  brethren  with 
him  were  writing,  to  take  leave  of  all  friends  forever  in  this  world, 
before  setting  out  —  for  it  was  well  known  to  the  chosen  persons 
intrusted  with  the  new  mission,  that  they  could  only  hope  to  ad- 
vance its  object  by  cheerfully  risking  their  own  lives  for  the  sake  of 
their  religion.  He  gave  his  blessing  to  Francois  Sarzeau,  to  Gabriel, 
and  to  his  family ;  and  bade  them  affectionately  farewell  for  the  last 
time. 

There  was  a  postscript  to  the  letter,  which  was  addressed  to  Per- 
rine,  and  which  she  often  read  afterward  with  tearful  eyes.  The 
writer  begged  that,  if  she  should  have  any  children,  she  would 
show  her  friendly  and  Christian  remembrance  of  him  by  teaching 
them  to  pray  (as  he  hoped  she  herself  would  pray)  that  a  blessing 
might  attend  Father  Paul's  labors  in  the  distant  land. 

The  priest's  loving  petition  was  never  forgotten.  When  Perrine 
taught  its  first  prayer  to  her  first  child,  the  little  creature  was  in- 
structed to  end  the  few  simple  words  pronounced  at  its  mother's 
knees,  with,  "  God  bless  Father  Paul." 

In  those  words  the  nun  concluded  her  narrative.  After  it  was 
ended,  she  pointed  to  the  old  wooden  cross,  and  said  to  me : 

"  That  was  one  of  the  many  that  he  made.  It  was  found,  a  few 
years  since,  to  have  suffered  so  much  from  exposure  to  the  weather 
that  it  was  unfit  to  remain  any  longer  in  its  old  place.  A  priest  in 
Brittany  gave  it  to  one  of  the  nuns  in  this  convent.  Do  you  won- 
der now  that  the  Mother  Superior  always  calls  it  a  Relic  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  And  I  should  have  small  respect  indeed  for 
the  religious  convictions  of  any  one  who  could  hear  the  story  of 
that  wooden  cross,  and  not  feel  that  the  Mother  Superior's  name  for 
it  is  the  very  best  that  could  have  been  chosen." 


PEOLOGUK  TO  THE  SIXTH  STOEY.  211 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  SIXTH  STORY. 

ON  the  last  occasion  when  I  made  a  lengthened  stay  in  London, 
my  wife  and  I  were  surprised  and  amused  one  morning  by  the  re- 
ceipt of  the  following  note,  addressed  to  me  in  a  small,  crabbed, 
foreign-looking  handwriting : 

"  Professor-  Tizzi  presents  amiable  compliments  to  Mr.  Kerby,  the 
artist,  and  is  desirous  of  having  his  portrait  done,  to  be  engraved 
from,  and  placed  at  the  beginning  of  the  voluminous  work  on  "  The 
Vital  Principle ;  or,  Invisible  Essence  of  Life,"  which  the  Professor 
is  now  preparing  for  the  press — and  posterity. 

"  The  Professor  will  give  five  pounds ;  and  will  look  upon  his 
face  with  satisfaction,  as  an  object  perpetuated  for  public  contem- 
plation at  a  reasonable  rate,  if  Mr.  Kerby  will  accept  the  sum  just 
mentioned. 

"  In  regard  to  the  Professor's  ability  to  pay  five  pounds,  as  well 
as  to  offer  them,  if  Mr.  Kerby  should,  from  ignorance,  entertain  in- 
jurious doubts,  he  is  requested  to  apply  to  the  Professor's  honora- 
ble friend,  Mr.  Lanfray,  of  Rockleigh  Place." 

But  for  the  reference  at  the  end  of  this  strange  note,  I  should  cer- 
tainly have  considered  it  as  a  mere  trap  set  to  make  a  fool  of  me  by 
some  mischievous  friend.  As  it  was,  I  rather  doubted  the  propriety 
of  taking  any  serious  notice  of  Professor  Tizzi's  offer ;  and  I  might 
probably  have  ended  by  putting  the  letter  in  the  fire  without  fur- 
ther thought  about  it,  but  for  the  arrival  by  the  next  post  of  a  note 
from  Mr.  Lanfray,  which  solved  all  my  doubts,  and  sent  me  away  at 
once  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  learned  discoverer  of  the  Es- 
sence of  Life. 

"  Do  not  be  surprised  "  (Mr.  Lanfray  wrote), "  if  you  get  a  strange 
note  from  a  very  eccentric  Italian,  one  Professor  Tizzi,  formerly  of 
the  University  of  Padua.  I  have  known  him  for  some  years.  Sci- 
entific inquiry  is  his  monomania,  and  vanity  his  ruling  passion. 
He  has  written  a  book  on  the  principle  of  life,  which  nobody  but 
himself  will  ever  read ;  but  which  he  is  determined  to  publish,  with 
his  own  portrait  for  frontispiece.  If  it  is  worth  your  while  to  ac- 
cept the  little  he  can  offer  you,  take  it  by  all  means,  for  he  is  a  char- 
acter worth  knowing.  He  was  exiled,  I  should  tell  you,  years  ago, 
for  some  absurd  political  rcasonT  and  has  lived  in  England  ever 
since.  All  the  money  he  inherits  from  his  father,  who  was  a  mail 
contractor  in  the  north  of  Italy,  goes  in  books  and  experiments ;  but 


212  AFTER 

I  think  I  can  answer  for  his  solvency,  at  any  rate,  for  the  large  sum 
of  five  pounds.  If  you  are  not  very  much  occupied  just  now,  go  and 
see  him.  He  is  sure  to  amuse  you." 

Professor  Tizzi  lived  in  the  northern  suburb  of  London.  On  ap- 
proaching his  house,  I  found  it,  so  far  as  outward  appearance  went, 
excessively  dirty  and  neglected,  but  in  no  other  respect  different 
from  the  "  villas  "  in  its  neighborhood.  The  front  garden  door,  af- 
ter I  had  rang  twice,  was  opened  by  a  yellow-faced,  suspicious  old 
foreigner,  dressed  in  worn-out  clothes,  and  completely  and  consist- 
ently dirty  all  over,  from  top  to  toe.  On  mentioning  iny  name  and 
business,  this  old  man  led  me  across  a  weedy,  neglected  garden,  and 
admitted  me  into  the  house.  At  the  first  step  into  the  passage,  I 
was  surrounded  by  books.  Closely  packed  in  plain  wooden  shelves, 
they  ran  all  along  the  wall  on  either  side  to  the  back  of  the  house ; 
and  when  I  looked  up  at  the  carpetless  staircase,  I  saw  nothing  but 
books  again,  running  all  the  way  up  the  wall,  as  far  as  my  eye  could 
reach.  "  Here  is  the  Artist  Painter !"  cried  the  old  servant,  throw- 
ing open  one  of  the  parlor  doors,  before  I  had  half  done  looking  at 
the  books,  and  signing  impatiently  to  me  to  walk  into  the  room. 

Books  again !  all  round  the  walls,  and  all  over  the  floor — among 
them  a  plain  deal  t&ble,  with  leaves  of  manuscript  piled  high  on  ev- 
ery part  of  it  —  among  the  leaves  a  head  of  long,  elfish  white  hair 
covered  with  a  black  skull-cap,  and  bent  down  over  a  book — above 
the  head  a  sallow,  withered  hand  shaking  itself  at  me  as  a  sign  that 
I  must  not  venture  to  speak  just  at  that  moment — on  the  tops  of  the 
book-cases  glass  vases  full  of  spirits  of  some  kind,  with  horrible  ob- 
jects floating  in  the  liquid  —  dirt  on  the  window  panes,  cobwebs 
hanging  from  the  ceiling,  dust  springing  up  in  clouds  under  my  in- 
truding feet.  These  were  the  things  I  observed  on  first  entering  the 
study  of  Professor  Tizzi. 

After  I  had  waited  for  a  minute  or  so,  the  shaking  hand  stopped, 
descended  with  a  smack  on  the  nearest  pile  of  manuscript,  seized 
the  book  that  the  head  had  been  bending  over,  and  flung  it  con- 
temptuously to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  "I've  refuted  you,  at 
any  rate !"  said  Professor  Tizzi,  looking  with  extreme  complacency 
at  the  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  the  fall  of  the  rejected  volume. 

He  turned  next  to  me.  What  a  grand  face  it  was  !  What  a  broad, 
white  forehead  —  what  fiercely  brilliant  black  eyes  —  what  perfect 
regularity  and  refinement  in  the  other  features ;  with  the  long,  ven- 
erable hair,  framing  them  in,  as  it  were,  on  either  side !  Poor  as  I 
was,  I  felt  that  I  could  have  painted  his  portrait  for  nothing.  Ti- 
tian, Vandyke,  Velasquez — any  of  the  three  would  have  paid  him  to 
sit  to  them ! 

"Accept  my  humblest  excuses,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  speaking 
English  with  a  singularly  pure  accent  for  a  foreigner.  "  That  ab- 


PROLOGUE   TO  THB   SIXTH   STOBY.  213 

surd  book  plunged  me  so  deep  down  in  the  quagmires  of  sophistry 
and  error,  Mr.  Kerby,  that  I  really  could  not  get  to  the  surface  at 
once  when  you  came  into  the  room.  So  you  are  willing  to  draw 
my  likeness  for  such  a  small  sum  as  five  pounds  ?"  he  continued, 
rising,  and  showing  me  that  he  wore  a  long  black  velvet  gown,  in- 
stead of  the  paltry  and  senseless  costume  of  modern  times. 

I  informed  him  that  five  pounds  was  as  much  as  I  generally  got 
for  a  drawing. 

"It  seems  little,"  said  the  Professor;  "but  if  you  want  fame,  I 
can  make  it  up  to  you  in  that  way.  There  is  my  great  work  "  (he 
pointed  to  the  piles  of  manuscript),  "  the  portrait  of  my  mind,  and 
the  mirror  of  my  learning :  put  a  likeness  of  my  face  on  the  first 
page,  and  posterity  will  then  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  me, 
outside  and  in.  Your  portrait  will  be  engraved,  Mr.  Kerby,  and 
your  name  shall  be  inscribed  under  the  print.  You  shall  be  asso- 
ciated, sir,  in  that  way  with  a  work  which  will  form  an  epoch  in 
the  history  of  human  science.  The  Vital  Principle  —  or,  in  other 
words,  the  essence  of  that  mysterious  Something  which  we  call  Life, 
and  which  extends  down  from  Man  to  the  feeblest  insect  and  the 
smallest  plant — has  been  an  unguessed  riddle  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  to  the  present  time.  I  alone  have  found  the  answer ; 
and  here  it  is !"  He  fixed  his  dazzling  eyes  on  me  in  triumph,  and 
smacked  the  piles  of  manuscript  fiercely  with  both  his  sallow  hands. 

I  saw  that  he  was  waiting  for  me  to  say  something ;  so  I  asked  if 
his  great  work  had  not  cost  a  vast  expenditure  of  time  and  pains. 

"  I  am  seventy,  sir,"  said  the  Professor ;  "  and  I  began  preparing 
myself  for  that  book  at  twenty.  After  mature  consideration,  I  have 
written  it  in  English  (having  three  other  foreign  languages  at  my 
fingers'  ends),  as  a  substantial  proof  of  my  gratitude  to  the  nation 
that  has  given  me  an  asylum.  Perhaps  you  think  the  work  looks 
rather  long  in  its  manuscript  state  ?  It  will  occupy  twelve  volumes, 
sir,  and  it  is  not  hSlf  long  enough,  even  then,  for  the  subject.  I  take 
two  volumes  (and  no  man  could  do  it  in  less)  to  examine  the  theo- 
ries of  all  the  philosophers  in  the  world,  ancient  and  modern,  on  the 
Vital  Principle.  I  take  two  more  (and  little  enough)  to  scatter  ev- 
ery one  of  the  theories,  seriatim,  to  the  winds.  I  take  two  more  (at 
the  risk,  for  brevity's  sake,  of  doing  things  by  halves)  to  explain  the 
exact  stuff,  or  vital  compound,  of  which  the  first  man  and  woman 
in  the  world  were  made — calling  them  Adam  and  Eve,  out  of  def- 
erence to  popular  prejudices.  I  take  two  more — but  you  are  stand- 
ing all  this  time,  Mr.  Kerby ;  and  I  am  talking  instead  of  sitting  for 
my  portrait.  Pray  take  any  books  you  want,  anywhere  off  the  floor, 
and  make  a  seat  of  any  height  you  please.  Furniture  would  only 
lie  in  my  way  here,  so  I  don't  trouble  myself  with  any  thing  of  the 
kind." 


214  AFTER   DARK. 

I  obediently  followed  the  Professor's  directions,  and  had  just 
heaped  up  a  pile  of  grimy  quartos,  when  the  old  servant  entered 
the  room  with  a  shabby  little  tray  in  his  hand.  In  the  middle  of 
the  tray  I  saw  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  bit  of  garlic,,  encircled  by  a 
glass  of  water,  a  knife,  salt,  pepper,  a  bottle  of  vinegar,  and  a  flask 
of  oil. 

"  With  your  permission,  I  am  going  to  breakfast,"  said  Professor 
Tizzi,  as  the  tray  was  set  down  before  him  on  the  part  of  his  great 
work  relating  to  the  vital  compound  of  Adam  and  Eve.  As  he 
spoke,  he  took  up  the  piece  of  bread,  and  rubbed  the  crusty  part 
of  it  with  the  bit  of  garlic,  till  it  looked  as  polished  as  a  new  din- 
ing-table.  That  done,  he  turned  the  bread,  crumb  uppermost,  and 
saturated  it  with  oil,  added  a  few  drops  of  vinegar,  sprinkled  with 
pepper  and  salt,  and,  with  a  gleam  of  something  very  like  greed- 
iness in  his  bright  eyes,  took  up  the  knife  to  cut  himself  a  first 
mouthful  of  the  horrible  mess  that  he  had  just  concocted.  "  The 
best  of  breakfasts,"  said  the  Professor,  seeing  me  look  amazed. 
"  Not  a  cannibal  meal  of  chicken-life  in  embryo  (vulgarly  called  an 
egg) ;  not  a  dog's  gorge  of  a  dead  animal's  flesh,  blood,  and  bones, 
warmed  with  fire  (popularly  known  as  a  chop)  ;  not  a  breakfast,  sir, 
that  lions,  tigers,  Caribbees,  and  coster-mongers  could  all  partake 
of  alike ;  but  an  innocent,  nutritive,  simple,  vegetable  meal ;  a  phi- 
losopher's refection ;  a  breakfast  that  a  prize-fighter  would  turn  from 
in  disgust,  and  that  a  Plato  would  share  with  relish." 

I  have  no  doubt  that  he  was  right,  and  that  I  was  prejudiced ; 
but  as  I  saw  the  first  oily,  vinegary,  garlicky  morsel  slide  noiselessly 
into  his  mouth,  I  began  to  feel  rather  sick.  My  hands  were  dirty 
with  moving  the  books,  and  I  asked  if  I  could  wash  them  before 
beginning  to  work  at  the  likeness,  as  a  good  excuse  for  getting  out 
of  the  room,  while  Professor  Tizzi  was  unctuously  disposing  of  his 
simple  vegetable  meal. 

The  philosopher  looked  a  little  astonished  at  my  request,  as  if  the 
washing  of  hands  at  irregular  times  and  seasons  offered  a  compara- 
tively new  subject  of  contemplation  to  him ;  but  he  rang  a  hand-bell 
on  his  table  immediately,  and  told  the  old  servant  to  take  me  up  into 
his  bedroom. 

The  interior  of  the  parlor  had  astonished  me ;  but  a  sight  of  the 
bedroom  was  a  new  sensation — not  of  the  most  agreeable  kind.  The 
couch  on  which  the  philosopher  sought  repose  after  his  labors  was 
a  truckle-bed  that  would  not  have  fetched  half  a  crown  at  a  sale. 
On  one  side  of  it  dangled  from  the  ceiling  a  complete  male  skeleton, 
looking  like  all  that  was  left  of  a  man  who  might  have  hung  him- 
self about  a  century  ago,  and  who  had  never  been  disturbed  since 
the  moment  of  his  suicide.  On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  stood  a 
long  press,  in  which  I  observed  hideous  colored  preparations  of  the 


PROLOGUE   TO   THE   SIXTH   STOBY.  215 

muscular  system,  and  bottles  with  curious,  twining,  thread-like  sub- 
stanees  inside  them,  which  might  have  been  remarkable  worms  or 
dissections  of  nerves,  scattered  amicably  side  by  side  with  the  Pro- 
fessor's hair- brush  (three  parts  worn  out),  with  remnants  of  his 
beard  on  hits  of  shaving-paper,  with  a  broken  shoe-horn,  and  with 
a  traveling  looking-glass  of  the  sort  usually  sold  at  sixpence  apiece. 
Repetitions  of  the  litter  of  books  in  the  parlor  lay  all  about  over 
the  floor ;  colored  anatomical  prints  were  nailed  anyhow  against  the 
walls;  rolled-up  towels  were  scattered  here,  there,  and  everywhere 
in  the  wildest  confusion,  as  if  the  room  had  been  bombarded  with 
them  ;  and  last,  but  by  no  means  least  remarkable  among  the  other 
extraordinary  objects  in  the  bed-chamber,  the  stuffed  figure  of  a 
large  unshaven  poodle-dog,  stood  on  an  old  card-table,  keeping  per- 
petual watch  over  a  pair  of  the  philosopher's  black  breeches  twisted 
round  his  forepaws. 

I  had  started,  on  entering  the  room,  at  the  skeleton,  and  I  started 
once  more  at  the  dog.  The  old  servant  noticed  me  each  time  with 
a  sardonic  grin.  "  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said ;  "one  is  as  dead  as  the 
other."  With  these  words,  he  left  me  to  wash  my  hands. 

Finding  little  more  than  a  pint  of  water  at  my  disposal,  and  fail- 
ing altogether  to  discover  where  the  soap  was  kept,  I  was  not  long 
in  performing  my  ablutions.  Before  leaving  the  room,  I  looked 
again  at  the  stuffed  poodle.  On  the  board  to  which  he  was  fixed, 
I  saw  painted  in  faded  letters  the  word  "  Scarammuccia,"  evidently 
the  comic  Italian  name  to  which  he  had  answered  in  his  lifetime. 
There  was  no  other  inscription ;  but  I  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
dog  must  have  been  the  Professor's  pet,  and  that  he  kept  the  ani- 
mal stuffed  in  his  bedroom  as  a  remembrance  of  past  times.  "Who 
would  have  suspected  so  great  a  philosopher  of  having  so  much 
heart !"  thought  I,  leaving  the  bedroom  to  go  down  stairs  again. 

The  Professor  had  done  his  breakfast,  and  was  anxious  to  begin 
the  sitting ;  so  I  took  out  my  chalks  and  paper,  and  set  to  work  at 
once — I  seated  on  one  pile  of  books  and  he  on  another. 

"  Fine  anatomical  preparations  in  my  room,  are  there  not,  Mr. 
Kerby  ?"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  Did  you  notice  a  very  interest- 
ing and  perfect  arrangement  of  the  intestinal  ganglia  ?  They  form, 
the  subject  of  an  important  chapter  in  my  great  work." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  very  ignorant,"  I  replied.  "  But 
I  really  do  not  know  the  intestinal  ganglia  when  I  see  them.  The 
object  I  noticed  with  most  curiosity  in  your  room  was  something 
more  on  a  level  with  my  own  small  capacity." 

"  And  what  was  that  ?"  asked  the  Professor. 

"  The  figure  of  the  stuffed  poodle.  I  suppose  he  was  a  favorite  of 
yours  ?" 

"  Of  mine  ?    No,  no ;  a  young  woman's  favorite,  sir,  before  I  was 


216  AFTER   DAKK. 

born ;  and  a  very  remarkable  dog,  too.  The  vital  principle  in  that 
poodle,  Mr.  Kerby,  must  have  been  singularly  intensified.  He  lived 
to  a  fabulous  old  age,  and  he  was  clever  enough  to  play  an  impor- 
tant part  of  his  own  in  what  you  English  call  a  Romance  of  Real 
Life  !  If  I  could  only  have  dissected  that  poodle,  I  would  have  put 
him  into  my  book ;  he  should  have  headed  my  chapter  on  the  Vital 
Principle  of  Beasts." 

"  Here  is  a  story  in  prospect,"  thought  I,  "  if  I  can  only  keep  his 
attention  up  to  the  subject." 

"  He  should  have  figured  in  my  great  work,  sir,"  the  Professor 
went  on.  "  Scarammuccia  should  have  taken  his  place  among  the 
examples  that  prove  my  new  theory ;  but  unfortunately  he  died  be- 
fore I  was  born.  His  mistress  gave  him,  stuffed,  as  you  see  up  stairs, 
to  my  father  to  take  care  of  for  her,  and  he  has  descended  as  an  heir- 
loom to  me.  Talking  of  dogs,  Mr.  Kerby,  I  have  ascertained,  beyond 
the  possibility  of  doubt,  that  the  brachial  plexus  in  people  who  die 
of  hydrophobia — but  slop !  I  had  better  show  you  how  it  is — tha 
preparation  is  up  stairs  under  my  wash-hand  stand." 

He  left  his  seat  as  he  spoke.  In  another  minute  he  would  have 
sent  the  servant  to  fetch  the  "  preparation,"  and  I  should  have  lost 
the  story.  At  the  risk  of  his  taking  offense,  I  begged  him  not  to 
move  just  then,  unless  he  wished  me  to  spoil  his  likeness.  This 
alarmed,  but  fortunately  did  not  irritate  him.  He  returned  to  his 
seat,  and  I  resumed  the  subject  of  the  stuffed  poodle,  asking  him 
boldly  to  tell  me  the  story  with  which  the  dog  was  connected.  The 
demand  seemed  to  impress  him  with  no  very  favorable  opinion  of  my 
intellectual  tastes ;  but  he  complied  with  it,  and  related,  not  without 
many  a  wearisome  digression  to  the  subject  of  his  great  work,  the 
narrative  which  I  propose  calling  by  the  name  of  "  The  Yellow 
Mask."  After  the  slight  specimens  that  I  have  given  of  his  char- 
acter and  style  of  conversation,  it  will  be  almost  unnecessary  for  me 
to  premise  that  I  tell  this  story  as  I  have  told  the  last,  and  "  Sister 
Rose,"  in  my  own  language,  and  according  to  my  own  plan  in  the 
disposition  of  the  incidents — adding  nothing,  of  course,  to  the  facts, 
but  keeping  them  within  the  limits  which  my  disposable  space  pre- 
scribes to  me. 

I  may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  add  in  this  place,  that  I  have  not 
yet  seen  or  heard  of  my  portrait  in  an  engraved  state.  Professor 
Tizzi  is  still  alive;  but  I  look  in  vain  through  the  publishers'  lists 
for  an  announcement  of  his  learned  work  on  the  Vital  Principle. 
Possibly  he  may  be  adding  a  volume  or  two  to  the  twelve  already 
completed,  by  way  of  increasing  the  debt  which  a  deeply  obliged 
posterity  is,  sooner  or  later,  sure  of  owing  to  him. 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  217 


THE  PROFESSOR'S  STORY 

OF 

THE    YELLOW    MASK. 


PART  FIRST.— CHAPTER  I. 

ABOUT  a  century  ago,  there  lived  in  the  ancient  city  of  Pisa  a 
famous  Italian  milliner,  who,  by  way  of  vindicating  to  all  custom- 
ers her  familiarity  with  Paris  fashions,  adopted  a  French  title,  and 
called  herself  the  Demoiselle  Grifoni.  She  was  a  wizen  little  wom- 
an, with  a  mischievous  face,  a  quick  tongue,  a  nimble  foot,  a  talent 
for  business,  and  an  uncertain  disposition.  Rumor  hinted  that  she 
was  immensely  rich,  and  scandal  suggested  that  she  would  do  any 
thing  tor  money. 

The  one  undeniable  good  quality  which  raised  Demoiselle  Grifoni 
above  all  her  rivals  in  the  trade  was  her  inexhaustible  fortitude. 
She  was  never  known  to  yield  an  inch  under  any  pressure  of  ad- 
verse circumstances.  Thus  the  memorable  occasion  of  her  life  on 
which  she  was  threatened  with  ruin  was  also  the  occasion  on  which 
she  most  triumphantly  asserted  the  energy  and  decision  of  her  char- 
acter. At  the  height  of  the  demoiselle's  prosperity,  her  skilled  fore- 
woman and  cutter-out  basely  married  and  started  in  business  as  her 
rival.  Such  a  calamity  as  this  would  have  ruined  an  ordinary  milli- 
ner; but  the  invincible  Grifoni  rose  superior  to  it  almost  without 
an  effort,  and  proved  incontestably  that  it  was  impossible  for  hostile 
Fortune  to  catch  her  at  the  end  of  her  resources.  While  the  minor 
milliners  were  prophesying  that  she  would  shut  up  shop,  she  was 
quietly  carrying  on  a  private  correspondence  with  an  agent  in  Paris. 
Nobody  knew  what  these  letters  were  about  until  a  few  weeks  had 
elapsed,  and  then  circulars  were  received  by  all  the  ladies  in  Pisa, 
announcing  that  the  best  French  fore-woman  who  could  be  got  for 
money  was  engaged  to  superintend  the  great  Grifoni  establishment. 
This  master-stroke  decided  the  victory.  All  the  demoiselle's  cus- 
tomers declined  giving  orders  elsewhere  until  the  fore-woman  from 
Paris  had  exhibited  to  the  natives  of  Pisa  the  latest  fashions  from 
the  metropolis  of  the  world  of  dress. 

The  Frenchwoman  arrived  punctual  to  the  appointed  day — glib 
and  curt,  smiling  and  flippant,  tight  of  face  and  supple  of  figure. 

9* 


218  AFTER   DARK. 

Her  name  was  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  and  her  family  had  inhuman- 
ly deserted  her.  She  was  set  to  work  the  moment  she  was  inside 
the  doors  of  the  Grifoni  establishment.  A  room  was  devoted  to  her 
own  private  use;  magnificent  materials  in  velvet,  silk,  and  satin, 
with  due  accompaniment  of  muslins,  laces,  and  ribbons  were  placed 
at  her  disposal;  she  was  told  to  spare  no  expense,  and  to  produce, 
in  the  shortest  possible  time,  the  finest  and  newest  specimen  dresses 
for  exhibition  in  the  show-room.  Mademoiselle  Virginie  undertook 
to  do  every  thing  required  of  her,  produced  her  port-folios  of  pat- 
terns and  her  book  of  colored  designs,  and  asked  for  one  .assistant 
who  could  speak  French  enough  to  interpret  her  orders  to  the  Ital- 
ian girls  in  the  work-room. 

"I  have  the  very  person  you  want,"  cried  Demoiselle  Grifoni. 
"  A  work-woman  we  call  Brigida  here — the  idlest  slut  in  Pisa,  but  as 
sharp  as  a  needle — has  been  in  France,  and  speaks  the  language  like 
a  native.  I'll  send  her  to  you  directly." 

Mademoiselle  Virginie  was  not  left  long  alone  with  her  patterns 
and  silks.  A  tall  woman,  with  bold  black  eyes,  a  reckless  manner, 
and  a  step  as  firm  as  a  man's,  stalked  into  the  room  with  the  gait 
of  a  tragedy-queen  crossing  the  stage.  The  instant  her  eyes  fell  on 
the  French  fore-woman,  she  stopped,  threw  up  her  hands  in  aston- 
ishment, and  exclaimed,  "  Finette !" 

"  Teresa !"  cried  the  Frenchwoman,  casting  her  scissors  on  the 
table,  and  advancing  a  few  steps. 

"  Hush  !  call  me  Brigida." 

"  Hush  !  call  me  Virginie." 

These  two  exclamations  were  uttered  at  the  same  moment,  and 
then  the  two  women  scrutinized  each  other  in  silence.  The  swarthy 
cheeks  of  the  Italian  turned  to  a  dull  yellow,  and  the  voice  of  the 
Frenchwoman  trembled  a  little  when  she  spoke  again. 

"  How,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  have  you  dropped  down  in  the 
world  as  low  as  this  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  thought  you  were  provided 
for  when — " 

"  Silence !"  interrupted  Brigida.  "  You  see  I  was  not  provided 
for.  I  have  had  my  misfortunes ;  and  you  are  the  last  woman  alive 
who  ought  to  refer  to  them." 

"Do  you  think  I  have  not  had  my  misfortunes,  too,  since  we 
met  ?"  (Brigida's  face  brightened  maliciously  at  those  words.) 
"  You  have  had  your  revenge,"  continued  Mademoiselle  Virginie, 
coldly,  turning  away  to  the  table  and  taking  up  the  scissors  again. 

Brigida  followed  her,  threw  one  arm  roughly  round  her  neck,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  "  Let  us  be  friends  again,'1  she  said.  The 
Frenchwoman  laughed.  "  Tell  me  how  I  have  had  my  revenge," 
pursued  the  other,  tightening  her  grasp.  Mademoiselle  Virginie 
signed  to  Brigida  to  stoop,  and  whispered  rapidly  in  her  ear.  The 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  219 

Italian  listened  eagerly,  with  fierce,  suspicious  eyes  fixed  on  the 
door.  \Vhcn  tin-  \\  Inspiring  ceased,  she  loosened  her  hold,  and, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  pushed  back  her  heavy  black  hair  from  her 
t rm pies.  "  Now  we  are  friends,"  she  said,  and  sat  down  indolently 
in  a  chair  placed  by  the  work-table. 

"  Friends,"  repeated  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  with  another  laugh. 
"  And  now  for  business,"  she  continued,  getting  a  row  of  pins  ready 
for  use  by  putting  them  between  her  teeth.  "  I  am  here,  I  believe, 
for  the  purpose  of  ruining  the  late  fore-woman,  who  has  set  up  in 
opposition  to  us?  Good!  I  will  ruin  her.  Spread  out  the  yellow 
brocaded  silk,  my  dear,  and  pin  that  pattern  on  at  your  end,  while 
I  pin  at  mine.  And  what  are  your  plans,  Brigida?  (Mind  you 
don't  forget  that  Finette  is  dead,  and  that  Virginie  has  risen  from 
her  ashes.)  You  can't  possibly  intend  to  stop  here  all  your  life  ? 
(Leave  an  inch  outside  the  paper,  all  round.)  You  must  have  proj- 
ects ?  What  are  they  ?". 

"  Look  at  my  figure,"  said  Brigida,  placing  herself  in  an  attitude 
in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Ah,"  rejoined  the  other, "  it's  not  what  it  was.  There's  too  much 
of  it.  You  want  diet,  walking,  and  a  French  stay-maker,"  muttered 
Mademoiselle  Virginie  through  her  chevaux-de-frise  of  pins. 

"Did  the  goddess  Minerva  walk,  and  employ  a  French  stay- 
maker  ?  I  thought  she  rode  upon  clouds,  and  lived  at  a  period 
before  waists  were  invented." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  This — that  my  present  project  is  to  try  if  I  can't  make  my  for- 
tune by  sitting  as  a  model  for  Minerva  in  the  studio  of  the  best 
sculptor  in  Pisa." 

"  And  who  is  he  ?    (Unwind  me  a  yard  or  two  of  that  black  lace.)" 

"  The  master-sculptor,  Luca  Lomi — an  old  family,  once  noble,  but 
down  in  the  world  now.  The  master  is  obliged  to  make  statues  to 
get  a  living  for  his  daughter  and  himself." 

••  More  of  the  lace — double  it  over  the  bosom  of  the  dress.  And 
how  is  sitting  to  this  needy  sculptor  to  make  your  fortune?" 

"  Wait  a  minute.  There  are  other  sculptors  besides  him  in  the 
studio.  There  is,  first,  his  brother,  the  priest  —  Father  Rocco,  who 
passes  all  his  spare  time  with  the  master.  He  is  a  good  sculptor  in 
his  way — has  cast  statues  and  made  a  font  for  his  church — a  holy 
man.  who  devotes  all  his  work  in  the  studio  to  the  cause  of  piety." 

"Ah,  bah  !  we  should  think  him  a  droll  priest  in  France.  (More 
pins.)  You  don't  expect  him  to  put  money  in  your  pocket,  surely  ?" 

"  Wait,  I  say  again.  There  is  a  third  sculptor  in  the  studio — act- 
ually a  nobleman  !  His  name  is  Fabio  d'Ascoli.  He  is  rich,  young, 
handsome,  an  only  child,  and  little  better  than  a  fool.  Fancy  his 
working  at  sculpture,  as  if  he  had  his  bread  to  get  by  it — and  think- 


220  AFTER  DAKK. 

ing  that  an  amusement !  Imagine  a  man  belonging  to  one  of  the 
best  families  in  Pisa  mad  enough  to  want  to  make  a  reputation  as 
an  artist !  Wait !  wait !  the  best  is  to  come.  His  father  and  moth- 
er are  dead — he  has  no  near  relations,  in  the  world  to  exercise  au- 
thority over  him — he  is  a  bachelor,  and  his  fortune  is  all  at  his  own 
disposal ;  going  a-begging,  my  friend ;  absolutely  going  a-begging 
for  want  of  a  clever  woman  to  hold  out  her  hand  and  take  it  from 
him." 

"  Yes,  yes — now  I  understand.  The  goddess  Minerva  is  a  clever 
woman,  and  she  will  hold  out  her  hand  and  take  his  fortune  from 
him  with  the  utmost  docility." 

"  The  first  thing  is  to  get  him  to  oifer  it.  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
am  not  going  to  sit  to  him,  but  to  his  master,  Luca  Lomi,  who  is  do- 
ing the  statue  of  Minerva.  The  face  is  modeled  from  his  daughter; 
and  now  he  wants  somebody  to  sit  for  the  bust  and  arms.  Maddar 
lena  Lomi  and  I  are  as  nearly  as  possible  the  same  height,  I  hear — 
the  difference  between  us  being  that  I  have  a  good  figure  and  she 
has  a  bad  one.  I  have  offered  to  sit,  through  a  friend  who  is  em- 
ployed in  the  studio.  If  the  master  accepts,  I  am  sure  of  an  intro- 
duction to  our  rich  young  gentleman ;  and  then  leave  it  to  my  good 
looks,  my  various  accomplishments,  and  my  ready  tongue,  to  do  the 
rest." 

"  Stop  !  I  won't  have  the  lace  doubled,  on  second  thoughts.  I'll 
have  it  single,  and  running  all  round  the  dress  in  curves — so.  Well, 
and  who  is  this  friend  of  yours  employed  in  the  studio  ?  A  fourth 
sculptor  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  the  strangest,  simplest  little  creature — " 

Just  then  a  faint  tap  was  audible  at  the  door  of  the  room. 

Brigida  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips,  and  called  impatiently  to  the 
person  outside  to  come  in. 

The  door  opened  gently,  and  a  young  girl,  poorly  but  very  neatly 
dressed,  entered  the  room.  She  was  rather  thin,  and  under  the  av- 
erage height ;  but  her  head  and  figure  were  in  perfect  proportion. 
Her  hair  was  of  that  gorgeous  auburn  color,  her  eyes  of  that  deep 
violet-blue,  which  the  portraits  of  Giorgione  and  Titian  have  made 
famous  as  the  type  of  Venetian  beauty.  Her  features  possessed  the 
definiteness  and  regularity,  the  "  good  modeling  "  (to  use  an  artist's 
term),  which  is  the  rarest  of  all  womanly  charms,  in  Italy  as  else- 
where. The  one  serious  defect  of  her  face  was  its  paleness.  Her 
cheeks,  wanting  nothing  in  form,  wanted  every  thing  in  color.  That 
look  of  health,  which  is  the  essential  crowning-point  of  beauty,  was 
the  one  attraction  which  her  face  did  not  possess. 

She  came  into  the  room  with  a  sad  and  weary  expression  in  her 
eyes,  which  changed,  however,  the  moment  she  observed  the  mag- 
nificently-dressed French  fore-woman,  into  a  look  of  astonishment, 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  221 

and  almost  of  awe.  Her  manner  became  shy  and  embarrassed ;  and 
after  an  instant  of  hesitation,  she  turned  back  silently  to  the  door. 

"  Stop,  stop,  Nanina,"  said  Brigida,  in  Italian.  "  Don't  be  afraid 
of  that  lady.  She  is  our  new  fore-woman ;  and  she  has  it  in  her 
power  to  do  all  sorts  of  kind  things  for  you.  Look  up,  and  tell  us 
what  you  want.  You  were  sixteen  last  birthday,  Nanina,  and  you 
behave  like  a  baby  of  two  years  old  !" 

"  I  only  came  to  know  if  there  was  any  work  for  me  to-day,"  said 
the  girl,  in  a  very  sweet  voice,  that  trembled  a  little  as  she  tried  to 
face  the  fashionable  French  fore-woman  again. 

"  No  work,  child,  that  is  easy  enough  for  you  to  do,"  said  Brigida. 
"Are  you  going  to  the  studio  to-day?" 

Some  of  the  color  that  Nanina's  cheeks  wanted  began  to  steal 
over  them  as  she  answered  "  Yes." 

"  Don't  forget  my  message,  darling.  And  if  Master  Luca  Lomi 
asks  where  I  live,  answer  that  you  are  ready  to  deliver  a  letter  to 
me ;  but  that  you  are  forbidden  to  enter  into  any  particulars  at  first 
about  who  I  am,  or  where  I  live." 

"  Why  am  I  forbidden  ?"  inquired  Nanina,  innocently. 

"  Don't  ask  questions,  baby !  Do  as  you  are  told.  Bring  me  back 
a  nice  note  or  message  to-morrow  from  the  studio,  and  I  will  inter- 
cede with  this  lady  to  get  you  some  work.  You  are  a  foolish  child 
to  want  it,  when  you  might  make  more  money  here  and  at  Florence, 
by  sitting  to  painters  and  sculptors;  though  what  they  can  see  to 
paint  or  model  in  you  I  never  could  understand." 

"I  like  working  at  home  better  than  going  abroad  to  sit,"  said 
Nanina,  looking  very  much  abashed  as  she  faltered  out  the  answer, 
and  escaping  from  the  room  with  a  terrified  farewell  obeisance, 
which  was  an  eccentric  compound  of  a  start,  a  bow,  and  a  court- 
esy. 

"  That  awkward  child  would  be  pretty,"  said  Mademoiselle  Vir- 
ginie,  making  rapid  progress  with  the  cutting-out  of  her  dress,  "if 
she  knew  how  to  give  herself  a  complexion,  and  had  a  presentable 
<i own  on  her  back.  Who  is  she?" 

"  The  friend  who  is  to  get  me  into  Master  Luca  Lomi's  studio," 
replied  Brigida,  laughing.  "  Rather  a  curious  ally  for  me  to  take 
up  with,  isn't  she  ?" 

"  Where  did  you  meet  with  her  ?" 

"  Here,  to  be  sure ;  she  hangs  about  this  place  for  any  plain  work 
she  can  get  to  do,  and  takes  it  home  to  the  oddest  little  room  in  a 
street  near  the  Campo  Santo.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  follow  her  one 
day,  and  knocked  at  her  door  soon  after  she  had  gone  in,  as  if  I 
was  a  visitor.  She  answered  my  knock  in  a  great  flurry  and  fright, 
as  you  may  imagine.  I  made  myself  agreeable,  affected  immense 
interest  in  her  affairs,  and  so  got  into  her  room.  Such  a  place !  A 


222  AFTER   DARK. 

mere  corner  of  it  curtained  off  to  make  a  bedroom.  One  chair,  one 
stool,  one  saucepan  on  the  fire.  Before  the  hearth  the  most  gro- 
tesquely hideous  unshaven  poodle-dog  you  ever  saw;  and  on  the 
stool  a  fair  little  girl  plaiting  dinner-mats.  Such  was  the  household 
— furniture  and  all  included.  '  Where  is  your  father  ?'  I  asked.  '  He 
ran  away  and  left  us  years  ago,'  answers  my  awkward  little  friend 
who  has  just  left  the  room,  speaking  in  that  simple  way  of  hers,  with 
all  the  composure  in  the  world.  '  And  your  mother  ?' — '  Dead.'  She 
went  up  to  the  little  mat-plaiting  girl  as  she  gave  that  answer,  and 
began  playing  with  her  long  flaxen  hair.  '  Your  sister,  I  suppose,' 
said  I.  '  What  is  her  name  ?' — '  They  call  me  La  Biondella,'  says 
the  child,  looking  up  from  her  mat  (La  Biondella,  Virginie,  means 
The  Fair).  'And  why  do  you  let  that  great,  shaggy,  ill -looking 
brute  lie  before  your  fire-place?'  I  asked.  'Oh!'  cried  the  little 
mat-plaiter,  'that  is  our  dear  old  dog,  Scarammuccia.  He  takes 
care  of  the  house  when  Nanina  is  not  at  home.  He  dances  on  his 
hind  legs,  and  jumps  through  a  hoop,  and  tumbles  down  dead  when 
I  cry  Bang  !  Scarammuccia  followed  us  home  one  night,  years  ago, 
and  he  has  lived  with  us  ever  since.  He  goes  out  every  day  by  him- 
self, we  can't  tell  where,  and  generally  returns  licking  his  chops, 
which  makes  us  afraid  that  he  is  a  thief;  but  nobody  finds  him  out, 
because  he  is  the  cleverest  dog  that  ever  lived  !'  The  child  ran  on 
in  this  way  about  the  great  beast  by  the  fire-place,  till  I  was  obliged 
to  stop  her ;  while  that  simpleton  Nanina  stood  by,  laughing  and  en- 
couraging her.  I  asked  them  a  few  more  questions,  which  produced 
some  strange  answers.  They  did  not  seem  to  know  of  any  relations 
of  theirs  in  the  world.  The  neighbors  in  the  house  had  helped 
them,  after  their  father  ran  away,  until  they  were  old  enough  to 
help  themselves ;  and  they  did  not  seem  to  think  there  was  any 
thing  in  the  least  wretched  or  pitiable  in  their  way  of  living.  The 
last  thing  I  heard,  when  I  left  them  that  day,  was  La  Biondella  cry- 
ing '  Bang !' — then  a  bark,  a  thump  on  the  floor,  and  a  scream  of 
laughter.  If  it  was  not  for  their  dog,  I  should  go  and  see  them  oft- 
ener.  But  the  ill-conditioned  beast  has  taken  a  dislike  to  me,  and 
growls  and  shows  his  teeth  whenever  I  come  near  him." 

"  The  girl  looked  sickly  when  she  came  in  here.  Is  she  always 
like  that  ?" 

"  No.  She  has  altered  within  the  last  month.  I  suspect  our  in- 
teresting young  nobleman  has  produced  an  impression.  The  oftener 
the  girl  has  sat  to  him  lately,  the  paler  and  more  out  of  spirits  she 
has  become." 

"  Oh  !  she  has  sat  to  him,  has  she  ?" 

"  She  is  sitting  to  him  now.  He  is  doing  a  bust  of  some  Pagan 
nymph  or  other,  and  prevailed  on  Nanina  to  let  him  copy  from  her 
head  and  face.  According  to  her  own  account  the  little  fool  was 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  223 

frightened  at  first,  and  gave  him  all  the  trouble  in  the  world  before 
she  would  consent." 

"  And  now  she  has  consented,  don't  you  think  it  likely  she  may 
turn  out  rather  a  dangerous  rival  ?  Men  are  such  fools,  and  take 
such  fancies  into  their  heads — " 

"Ridiculous!  A  thread -paper  of  a  girl  like  that,  who  has  no 
manner,  no  talk,  no  intelligence ;  who  has  nothing  to  recommend 
her  but  an  awkward,  babyish  prettiness!  Dangerous  to  me  ?  No, 
no  !  If  there  is  danger  at  all,  I  have  to  dread  it  from  the  sculptor's 
daughter.  I  don't  mind  confessing  that  I  am  anxious  to  see  Mad- 
dalena  Lomi.  But  as  for  Nanina,  she  will  simply  be  of  use  to  me. 
All  I  know  already  about  the  studio  and  the  artists  in  it,  I  know 
through  her.  She  will  deliver  my  message,  and  procure  me  my  in- 
troduction ;  and  when  we  have  got  so  far,  I  shall  give  her  an  old 
gown  and  a  shake  of  the  hand ;  and  then,  good-bye  to  our  little 
innocent !" 

"  Well,  well,  for  your  sake  I  hope  you  are  the  wiser  of  the  two  in 
this  matter.  For  my  part,  I  always  distrust  innocence.  Wait  one 
moment,  and  I  shall  have  the  body  and  sleeves  of  this  dress  ready 
for  the  needle-women.  There,  ring  the  bell,  and  order  them  up ; 
for  I  have  directions  to  give,  and  you  must  interpret  for  me." 

While  Brigida  went  to  the  bell,  the  energetic  Frenchwoman  be- 
gan planning  out  the  skirt  of  the  new  dress.  She  laughed  as  she 
measured  off  yard  after  yard  of  the  silk. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  about  ?"  asked  Brigida,  opening  the 
door  and  ringing  a  hand-bell  in  the  passage. 

"  I  can't  help  fancying,  dear,  in  spite  of  her  innocent  face  and 
her  artless  ways,  that  your  young  friend  is  a  hypocrite." 

"  And  I  am  quite  certain,  love,  that  she  is  only  a  simpleton." 


CHAPTER  H. 

THE  studio  of  the  master-sculptor,  Luca  Lomi,  was  composed  of 
two  large  rooms  unequally  divided  by  a  wooden  partition,  with  an 
arched  door-way  cut  in  the  middle  of  it. 

While  the  milliners  of  the  Grifoni  establishment  were  industrious- 
ly shaping  dresses,  the  sculptors  in  Luca  Lomi's  workshop  were,  in 
their  way,  quite  as  hard  at  work  shaping  marble  and  clay.  In  the 
smaller  of  the  two  rooms  the  young  nobleman  (only  addressed  in 
the  studio  by  his  Christian  name  of  Fabio)  was  busily  engaged  on 
his  bust,  with  Nanina  sitting  before  him  as  a  model.  His  was  not 
one  of  those  traditional  Italian  faces  from  which  subtlety  and  sus- 
picion are  always  supposed  to  look  out  darkly  on  the  world  at 


224  AFTER  DARK. 

large.  Both  countenance  and  expression  proclaimed  his  character 
frankly  and  freely  to  all  who  saw  him.  Quick  intelligence  looked 
brightly  from  his  eyes ;  and  easy  good  humor  laughed  out  pleasant- 
ly in  the  rather  quaint  curve  of  his  lips.  For  the  rest,  his  face  ex- 
pressed the  defects  as  well  as  the  merits  of  his  character,  showing 
that  he  wanted  resolution  and  perseverance  just  as  plainly  as  it 
showed  also  that  he  possessed  amiability  and  intelligence. 

At  the  end  of  the  large  room,  nearest  to  the  street  door,  Luca 
Lorni  was  standing  by  his  life-size  statue  of  Minerva  ;  and  was  issu- 
ing directions,  from  time  to  time,  to  some  of  his  workmen,  who  were 
roughly  chiseling  the  drapery  of  another  figure.  At  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  nearest  to  the  partition,  his  brother,  Father  Rocco, 
was  taking  a  cast  from  a  statuette  of  the  Madonna ;  while  Maddalena 
Lomi,the  sculptor's  daughter,  released  from  sitting  for  Minerva's  face, 
walked  about  the  two  rooms,  and  watched  what  was  going  on  in 
them. 

There  was  a  strong  family  likeness  of  a  certain  kind  between 
father,  brother,  and  daughter.  All  three  were  tall,  handsome,  dark- 
haired,  and  dark-eyed ;  nevertheless,  they  differed  in  expression, 
strikingly  as  they  resembled  one  another  in  feature.  Maddalena 
Lomi's  face  betrayed  strong  passions,  but  not  an  ungenerous  nature. 
Her  father,  with  the  same  indications  of  a  violent  temper,  had  some 
sinister  lines  about  his  mouth  and  forehead  which  suggested  any 
thing  rather  than  an  open  disposition.  Father  Rocco's  countenance, 
on  the  other  hand,  looked  like  the  personification  of  absolute  calm- 
ness and  invincible  moderation ;  and  his  manner,  which,  in  a  very 
firm  way,  was  singularly  quiet  and  deliberate,  assisted  in  carrying 
out  the  impression  produced  by  his  face.  The  daughter  seemed  as 
if  she  could  fly  into  a  passion  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  forgive  also 
at  a  moment's  notice.  The  father,  appearing  to  be  just  as  irritable, 
had  something  in  his  face  which  said,  as  plainly  as  if  in  words, 
"Anger  me,  and  I  never  pardon."  The  priest  looked  as  if  he  need 
never  be  called  on  either  to  ask  forgiveness  or  to  grant  it,  for  the 
double  reason  that  he  could  irritate  nobody  else,  and  that  nobody 
else  could  irritate  him. 

"  Rocco,"  said  Luca,  looking  at  the  face  of  his  Minerva,  which  was 
now  finished,  "  this  statue  of  mine  will  make  a  sensation." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  rejoined  the  priest,  dryly. 

"It  is  a  new  thing  in  art,"  continued  Luca,  enthusiastically. 
"  Other  sculptors,  with  a  classical  subject  like  mine,  limit  them- 
selves to  the  ideal  classical  face,  and  never  think  of  aiming  at  in- 
dividual character.  Now  I  do  precisely  the  reverse  of  that.  I  get 
my  handsome  daughter,  Maddalena,  to  sit  for  Minerva,  and  I  make 
an  exact  likeness  of  her.  I  may  lose  in  ideal  beauty,  but  I  gain  in 
individual  character.  People  may  accuse  me  of  disregarding  estab' 


I  UK    YELLOW    MASK.  225 

lislu-d  rules ;  but  my  answer  is,  that  I  make  my  own  rules.  My 
daughter  looks  like  a  Minerva,  and  there  she  is  exactly  as  she 
looks." 

"It  is  certainly  a  wonderful  likeness,"  said  Father  Rocco,  ap- 
proaching the  statue. 

"  It  is  the  girl  herself,"  cried  the  other.  "  Exactly  her  expression, 
and  exactly  her  features.  Measure  Maddalena,  and  measure  Minerva, 
and,  from  forehead  to  chin,  you  won't  find  a  hair-breadth  of  differ- 
ence between  them." 

"  But  how  about  the  bust  and  arms  of  the  figure,  now  the  face  is 
done  ?"  asked  the  priest,  returning,  as  he  spoke,  to  his  own  work. 

"  I  may  have  the  very  model  I  want  for  them  to-morrow.  Little 
Nanina  has  just  given  me  the  strangest  message.  What  do  you 
think  of  a  mysterious  lady  admirer  who  offers  to  sit  for  the  bust  and 
arms  of  my  Minerva  ?" 

"  Are  you  going  to  accept  the  offer  ?"  inquired  the  priest. 

"  I  am  going  to  receive  her  to-morrow ;  and  if  I  really  find  that 
she  is  the  same  height  as  Maddalena,  and  has  a  bust  and  arms  worth 
modeling,  of  course  I  shall  accept  her  offer ;  for  she  will  be  the  very 
sitter  I  have  been  looking  after  for  weeks  past.  Who  can  she  be  ? 
That's  the  mystery  I  want  to  find  out.  Which  do  you  say,  Rocco — 
an  enthusiast  or  an  adventuress  ?" 

"  I  do  not  presume  to  say,  for  I  have  no  means  of  knowing." 

"  Ah,  there  you  are  with  your  moderation  again.  Now,  I  do  pre- 
sume to  assert  that  she  must  be  either  one  or  the  other  —  or  she 
would  not  have  forbidden  Nanina  to  say  any  thing  about  her  in 
answer  to  all  my  first  natural  inquiries.  Where  is  Maddalena?  I 
thought  she  was  here  a  minute  ago." 

"  She  is  in  Fabio's  room,"  answered  Father  Rocco,  softly.  "  Shall 
I  call  her  ?" 

"No,  no!"  returned  Luca.  He  stopped,  looked  round  at  the 
workmc'ii.  who  were  chipping  away  mechanically  at  their  bit  of 
drapery ;  then  advanced  close  to  the  priest,  with  a  cunning  smile, 
and  continued  in  a  whisper,  "  If  Maddalena  can  only  get  from  Fa- 
bio's  room  here  to  Fabio's  palace  over  the  way,  on  the  Arno — come, 
come,  Rocco  !  don't  shake  your  head.  If  I  brought  her  up  to  your 
church  door  one  of  these  days,  as  Fabio  d'Ascoli's  betrothed,  you 
would  be  glad  enough  to  take  the  rest  of  the  business  off  my  hands, 
anil  make  her  Fabio  d'Ascoli's  wife.  You  are  a  very  holy  man, 
Rocco,  but  you  know  the  difference  between  the  clink  of  the  mon- 
ey-bag and  the  clink  of  the  chisel  for  all  that!" 

"I  am  sorry  to  find,  Luca,"  returned  the  priest,  coldly,  "that  you 
aliow  yourself  to  talk  of  the  most  delicate  subjects  in  the  coarsest 
way.  This  is  one  of  the  minor  sins  of  the  tongue  which  is  growing 
on  you.  When  we  are  alone  in  the  studio,  I  will  endeavor  to  lead 


226  AFTER  DARK. 

you  into  speaking  of  the  young  man  in  the  room  there,  and  of  your 
daughter,  in  terms  more  becoming  to  you,  to  me,  and  to  them.  Un- 
til that  time,  allow  me  to  go  on  with  my  work." 

Luca  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  back  to  his  statue.  Father 
Rocco,  who  had  been  engaged  during  the  last  ten  minutes  in  mixing 
wet  plaster  to  the  right  consistency  for  taking  a  cast,  suspended  his 
occupation  ;  and  crossing  the  room  to  a  corner  next  the  partition, 
removed  from  it  a  cheval-glass  which  stood  there.  He  lifted  it 
away  gently,  while  his  brother's  back  was  turned,  carried  it  close 
to  the  table  at  which  he  had  been  at  work,  and  then  resumed  his 
employment  of  mixing  the  plaster.  Having  at  last  prepared  the 
composition  for  use,  he  laid  it  over  the  exposed  half  of  the  statuette 
with  a  neatness  and  dexterity  which  showed  him  to  be  a  practiced 
hand  at  cast-taking.  Just  as  he  had  covered  the  necessary  extent 
of  surface,  Luca  turned  round  from  his  statue. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  with  the  cast  ?"  he  asked.  "  Do  you 
want  any  help  ?" 

"  None,  brother,  I  thank  you,"  answered  the  priest.  "  Pray  do  not 
disturb  either  yourself  or  your  workmen  on  my  account." 

Luca  turned  again  to  the  statue ;  and,  at  the  same  moment,  Father 
Rocco  softly  moved  the  cheval-glass  toward  the  open  door-way  be- 
tween the  two  rooms,  placing  it  at  such  an  angle  as  to  make  it  re- 
flect the  figures  of  the  persons  in  the  smaller  studio.  He  did  this 
with  significant  quickness  and  precision.  It  was  evidently  not  the 
first  time  he  had  used  the  glass  for  purposes  of  secret  observation. 

Mechanically  stirring  the  wet  plaster  round  and  round  for  the 
second  casting,  the  priest  looked  into  the  glass,  and  saw,  as  in  a 
picture,  all  that  was  going  forward  in  the  inner  room.  Maddalena 
Lomi  was  standing  behind  the  young  nobleman,  watching  the  prog- 
ress he  made  with  his  bust.  Occasionally  she  took  the  modeling 
tool  out  of  his  hand,  and  showed  him,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  that 
she  too,  as  a  sculptor's  daughter,  understood  something  of  the 
sculptor's  art ;  and  now  and  then,  in  the  pauses  of  the  conversation, 
when  her  interest  was  especially  intense  in  Fabio's  work,  she  suffer- 
ed her  hand  to  drop  absently  on  his  shoulder,  or  stooped  forward  so 
close  to  him  that  her  hair  mingled  for  a  moment  with  his.  Moving 
the  glass  an  inch  or  two,  so  as  to  bring  Nanina  well  under  his  eye, 
Father  Rocco  found  that  he  could  trace  each  repetition  of  these  lit- 
tle acts  of  familiarity  by  the  immediate  effect  which  they  produced 
on  the  girl's  face  and  manner.  Whenever  Maddalena  so  much  as 
touched  the  young  nobleman  —  no  matter  whether  she  did  so  by 
premeditation,  or  really  by  accident — Nanina's  features  contracted, 
her  pale  cheeks  grew  paler,  she  fidgeted  on  her  chair,  and  her  fin- 
gers nervously  twisted  and  untwisted  the  loose  ends  of  the  ribbon 
fastened  round  her  waist. 


THE   TKIXOW  MASK.  227 

"  Jealous,"  thought  Father  Rocco ;  "  I  suspected  it  weeks  ago." 

He  turned  away,  and  gave  his  whole  attention  for  a  few  minutes 
to  the  mixing  of  the  plaster.  When  he  looked  back  again  at  the 
glass,  he  was  just  in  time  to  witness  a  little  accident  which  sudden- 
ly changed  the  relative  positions  of  the  three  persons  in  the  inner 
room. 

He  saw  Maddalena  take  up  a  modeling  tool  which  lay  on  a  table 
near  her,  and  begin  to  help  Fabio  in  altering  the  arrangement  of 
the  hair  in  his  bust.  The  young  man  watched  what  she  was  doing 
earnestly  enough  for  a  few  moments ;  then  his  attention  wandered 
away  to  Nanina.  She  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  and  he  answered 
by  a  sign  which  brought  a  smile  to  her  face  directly.  Maddalena 
surprised  her  at  the  instant  of  the  change ;  and,  following  the  di- 
rection of  her  eyes,  easily  discovered  at  whom  the  smile  was  direct- 
ed. She  darted  a  glance  of  contempt  at  Nanina,  threw  down  the 
modeling  tool,  and  turned  indignantly  to  the  young  sculptor,  who 
was  affecting  to  be  hard  at  work  again. 

"  Signor  Fabio,"  she  said,  "  the  next  time  you  forget  what  is  due 
to  your  rank  and  yourself,  warn  me  of  it,  if  you  please,  beforehand, 
and  I  will  take  care  to  leave  the  room."  While  speaking  the  last 
words,  she  passed  through  the  door-way.  Father  Rocco,  bending 
abstractedly  over  his  plaster  mixture,  heard  her  continue  to  herself 
in  a  whisper,  as  she  went  by  him,  "  If  I  have  any  influence  at  all 
with  my  father,  that  impudent  beggar-girl  shall  be  forbidden  the 
studio." 

"  Jealousy  on  the  other  side,"  thought  the  priest.  "  Something 
must  be  done  at  once,  or  this  will  end  badly." 

He  looked  again  at  the  glass,  and  saw  Fabio,  after  an  instant  of 
hesitation,  beckon  to  Nanina  to  approach  him.  She  left  her  seat, 
advanced  half-way  to  his,  then  stopped.  He  stepped  forward  to 
meet  her,  and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  whispered  earnestly  in  her 
ear.  When  he  had  done,  before  dropping  her  hand,  he  touched  her 
clu-ck  with  his  lips,  and  then  helped  her  on  with  the  little  white 
mantilla  which  covered  her  head  and  shoulders  out-of-doors.  The 
girl  trembled  violently,  and  drew  the  linen  close  to  her  face  as  Fa- 
bio walked  into  the  larger  studio,  and,  addressing  Father  Rocco, 
said, 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  more  idle,  or  more  stupid,  than  ever  to-day. 
I  can't  get  on  with  the  bust  at  all  to  my  satisfaction,  so  I  have  cut 
short  the  sitting,  and  given  Nanina  a  half-holiday." 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  Maddalena,  who  was  speaking  to 
her  father,  stopped,  and,  with  another  look  of  scorn  at  Nanina 
standing  trembling  in  the  door-way,  left  the  room.  Luca  Lomi  call- 
ed Fabio  to  him  as  she  went  away,  and  Father  Rocco,  turning  to 
the  statuette,  looked  to  see  how  the  plaster  was  hardening  on  it. 


228  AFTER   DAKK. 

Seeing  them  thus  engaged,  Nanina  attempted  to  escape  from  the 
studio  without  being  noticed ;  but  the  priest  stopped  her  just  as  she 
was  hurrying  by  him. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  in  his  gentle,  quiet  way,  "are  you  going 
home  ?" 

Nanina's  heart  beat  too  fast  for  her  to  reply  in  words  ;  she  could 
only  answer  by  bowing  her  head. 

"  Take  this  for  your  little  sister,"  pursued  Father  Rocco,  putting 
a  few  silver  coins  in  her  hand ;  "  I  have  got  some  customers  for 
those  mats  she  plaits  so  nicely.  You  need  not  bring  them  to  my 
rooms ;  I  will  come  and  see  you  this  evening,  when  I  am  going  my 
rounds  among  my  parishioners,  and  will  take  the  mats  away  with 
me.  You  are  a  good  girl,  Nanina — you  have  always  been  a  good 
girl — and  as  long  as  I  am  alive,  my  child,  you  shall  never  want  a 
friend  and  an  adviser." 

Nanina's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  drew  the  mantilla  closer 
than  ever  round  her  face,  as  she  tried  to  thank  the  priest.  Father 
Rocco  nodded  to  her  kindly,  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  her  head 
for  a  moment,  then  turned  round  again  to  his  cast. 

"  Don't  forget  my  message  to  the  lady  who  is  to  sit  to  me  to-mor- 
row," said  Luca  to  Nanina,  as  she  passed  him  on  her  way  out  of  the 
studio. 

After  she  had  gone,  Fabio  returned  to  the  priest,  who  was  still 
busy  over  his  cast. 

"I  hope  you  will  get  on  better  with  the  bust  to-morrow,"  said 
Father  Rocco,  politely ;  "  I  am  sure  you  can  not  complain  of  your 
model." 

"  Complain  of  her !"  cried  the  young  man,  warmly  ;  "  she  has  the 
most  beautiful  head  I  ever  saw.  If  I  were  twenty  times  the  sculp- 
tor that  I  am,  I  should  despair  of  being  able  to  do  her  justice." 

He  walked  into  the  inner  room  to  look  at  his  bust  again — lingered 
before  it  for  a  little  while — and  then  turned  to  retrace  his  steps  to 
the  larger  studio.  Between  him  and  the  door -way  stood  three 
chairs.  As  he  went  by  them,  he  absently  touched  the  backs  of  the 
first  two,  and  passed  the  third ;  but  just  as  he  was  entering  the 
larger  room,  stopped,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  recollection,  returned 
hastily,  and  touched  the  third  chair.  Raising  his  eyes,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  large  studio  again  after  doing  this,  he  met  the  eyes 
of  the  priest  fixed  on  him  in  unconcealed  astonishment. 

"  Signer  Fabio !"  exclaimed  Father  Rocco,  with  a  sarcastic  smile, 
"  who  would  ever  have  imagined  that  you  were  superstitious  ?" 

"  My  nurse  was,"  returned  the  young  man,  reddening,  and  laugh- 
ing rather  uneasily.  "  She  taught  me  some  bad  habits  that  I  have 
not  got  over  yet."  With  those  words  he  nodded,  and  hastily  went 
out. 


TUB   YELLOW   MASK.  22d 

"  Superstitions,"  said  Father  Rocco  softly  to  himself.  He  smiled 
again,  reflected  tor  a  moment,  and  then,  going  to  the  window, 
looked  into  the  street.  The  way  to  the  left  led  to  Fabio's  palace, 
and  the  way  to  the  right  to  the  Campo  Santo,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  which  Nanina  lived.  The  priest  was  just  in  time  to  see  the 
young  sculptor  take  the  way  to  the  right. 

After  another  half-hour  had  elapsed,  the  two  workmen  quitted 
the  studio  to  go  to  dinner,  and  Luca  and  his' brother  were  left 
alone. 

"  We  may  return  now,"  said  Father  Rocco,  "  to  that  conversation 
which  was  suspended  between  us  earlier  in  the  day." 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  rejoined  Luca,  sulkily. 

"  Then  you  can  listen  to  me,  brother,  with  the  greater  attention," 
pursued  the  priest.  "  I  objected  to  the  coarseness  of  your  tone  in 
talking  of  our  young  pupil  and  your  daughter ;  I  object  still  more 
strongly  to  your  insinuation  that  my  desire  to  see  them  married 
(provided  always  that  they  are  sincerely  attached  to  each  other) 
springs  from  a  mercenary  motive." 

"  You  are  trying  to  snare  me,  Rocco,  in  a  mesh  of  fine  phrases ; 
but  I  am  not  to  be  caught.  I  know  what  my  own  motive  is  for 
hoping  that  Maddalena  may  get  an  offer  of  marriage  from  this 
wealthy  young  gentleman — she  will  have  his  money,  and  we  shall 
all  profit  by  it.  That  is  coarse  and  mercenary,  if  you  please  ;  but  it 
is  the  true  reason  why  I  want  to  see  Maddalena  married  to  Fabio. 
You  want  to  see  it,  too — and  for  what  reason,  I  should  like  to  know, 
if  not  for  mine  ?" 

"  Of  what  use  would  wealthy  relations  be  to  me  ?  What  are  peo- 
ple with  money — what  is  money  itself — to  a  man  who  follows  my 
calling  ?" 

"  Money  is  something  to  every  body." 

"  Is  it  ?  When  have  you  found  that  I  have  taken  any  account  of 
it  ?  Give  me  money  enough  to  buy  my  daily  bread,  and  to  pay  for 
my  lodging  and  my  coarse  cassock,  and  though  I  may  want  much 
for  the  poor,  for  myself  I  want  no  more.  When  have  you  found  me 
mercenary  ?  Do  I  not  help  you  in  this  studio,  for  love  of  you  and 
i  >f  t  lie  art,  without  exacting  so  much  as  journeyman's  wages  ?  Have 
I  ever  asked  you  for  more  than  a  few  crowns  to  give  away  on  feast- 
days  among  my  parishioners  ?  Money !  money  for  a  man  who  may 
be  summoned  to  Rome  to-morrow,  who  may  be  told  to  go  at  half  an 
hour's  notice  on  a  foreign  mission  that  may  take  him  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  and  who  would  be  ready  to  go  the  moment  when  he  was 
called  on  !  Money  to  a  man  who  has  no  wife,  no  children,  no  inter- 
ests outside  the  sacred  circle  of  the  church !  Brother,  do  you  see 
the  dust  and  dirt  and  shapeless  marble  chips  lying  around  your 
statue  there  ?  Cover  that  floor  instead  with  gold,  and,  though  the 


230  AFTER    DAKK. 

litter  may  have  changed  in  color  and  form,  in  my  eyes  it  would  be 
litter  still." 

"  A  very  noble  sentiment,  I  dare  say,  Rocco,  but  I  can't  echo  it. 
Granting  that  you  care  nothing  for  money,  will  you  explain  to  me 
why  you  are  so  anxious  that  Maddalena  should  marry  Fabio  ?  She 
has  had  offers  from  poorer  men — you  knew  of  them — but  you  have 
never  taken  the  least  interest  in  her  accepting  or  rejecting  a  pro- 
posal before."  • 

"  I  hinted  the  reason  to  you,  months  ago,  when  Fabio  first  entered 
the  studio." 

"  It  was  rather  a  vague  hint,  brother ;  can't  you  be  plainer  to- 
day ?" 

"  I  think  I  can.  In  the  first  place,  let  me  begin  by  assuring  you 
that  I  have  no  objection  to  the  young  man  himself.  He  may  be  a 
little  capricious  and  undecided,  but  he  has  no  incorrigible  faults 
that  I  have  discovered." 

"  That  is  rather  a  cool  way  of  praising  him,  Rocco." 

"  I  should  speak  of  him  warmly  enough,  if  he  were  not  the  rep- 
resentative of  an  intolerable  corruption,  and  a  monstrous  wrong. 
Whenever  I  think  of  him  I  think  of  an  injury  which  his  present  ex- 
istence perpetuates ;  and  if  I  do  speak  of  him  coldly,  it  is  only  for 
that  reason." 

Luca  looked  away  quickly  from  his  brother,  and  began  kicking 
absently  at  the  marble  chips  which  were  scattered  over  the  floor 
around  him. 

"  I  now  remember,"  he  said,  "  what  that  hint  of  yours  pointed  at. 
I  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Then  you  know,"  answered  the  priest,  "  that  while  part  of  the 
wealth  which  Fabio  d'Ascoli  possesses  is  honestly  and  incontestably 
his  own ;  part,  also,  has  been  inherited  by  him  from  the  spoilers  and 
robbers  of  the  Church — " 

"  Blame  his  ancestors  for  that ;  don't  blame  him." 

"  I  blame  him  as  long  as  the  spoil  is  not  restored." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  it  was  spoil,  after  all  ?" 

"  I  have  examined  more  carefully  than  most  men  the  records  of 
the  civil  wars  in  Italy;  and  I  know  that  the  ancestors  of  Fabio 
d'Ascoli  wrung  from  the  Church,  in  her  hour  of  weakness,  property 
which  they  dared  to  claim  as  their  right.  I  know  of  titles  to  lands 
signed  away,  in  those  stormy  times,  under  the  influence  of  fear,  or 
through  false  representations  of  which  the  law  takes  no  account.  I 
call  the  money  thus  obtained  spoil,  and  I  say  that  it  ought  to  be 
restored,  and  shall  be  restored,  to  the  Church  from  which  it  was 
taken." 

"  And  what  does  Fabio  answer  to  that,  brother  ?" 

"  I  have  not  spoken  to  him  on  the  subject." 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  231 

"Why  not?" 

••  Because,  1  have,  as  yet,  no  influence  over  him.  When  he  is  mar- 
ried, his  wife  will  have  influence  over  him,  and  she  shall  speak." 

'•  Muddalena,  I  suppose  ?    How  do  you  know  that  she  will  speak  ?" 

"  Have  I  not  educated  her  ?  Does  she  not  understand  what  her 
duties  are  toward  the  Church,  in  whose  bosom  she  has  been  reared  ?" 

Luca  hesitated  uneasily,  and  walked  away  a  step  or  two  before  he 
spoke  again. 

"  Does  this  spoil,  as  you  call  it,  amount  to  a  large  sum  of  money  ?" 
he  asked,  in  an  anxious  whisper. 

"  I  may  answer  that  question,  Luca,  at  some  future  time,"  said  the 
priest.  "  For  the  present,  let  it  be  enough  that  you  are  acquainted 
\\itli  all  I  undertook  to  inform  you  of  when  we  began  our  conversa- 
tion. You  now  know  that  if  I  am  anxious  for  this  marriage  to  take 
place,  it  is  from  motives  entirely  unconnected  with  self-interest.  If 
all  the  property  which  Fabio's  ancestors  wrongfully  obtained  from 
the  Church  were  restored  to  the  Church  to-morrow,  not  one  paulo 
of  it  would  go  into  my  pocket.  I  am  a  poor  priest  now,  and  to  the 
end  of  my  days  shall  remain  so.  You  soldiers  of  the  world,  brother, 
fight  for  your  pay ;  I  am  a  soldier  of  the  Church,  and  I  tight  for  my 
cause." 

Saying  these  words,  he  returned  abruptly  to  the  statuette ;  and 
refused  to  speak,  or  leave  his  employment  again,  until  he  had  taken 
the  mould  off,  and  had  carefully  put  away  the  Various  fragments  of 
which  it  consisted.  This  done,  he  drew  a  writing-desk  from  the 
drawer  of  his  working-table,  and  taking  out  a  slip  of  paper,  wrote 
these  lines: 

"  Come  down  to  the  studio  to-morrow.  Fabio  will  be  with  us,  but 
Nanina  will  return  no  more." 

Without  signing  what  he  had  written,  he  sealed  it  up,  and  direct- 
ed, it  to  "  Donna  Maddalena ;"  then  took  his  hat,  and  handed  the 
note  to  his  brother. 

"  Oblige  me  by  giving  that  to  my  niece,"  he  said. 

"Tell  me,  Rocco,"  said  Luca,  turning  the  note  round  and  round 
perplexedly  between  his  finger  and  thumb  ;  "do  you  think  Madda- 
lena will  be  lucky  enough  to  get  married  to  Fabio  ?" 

"  Still  coarse  in  your  expressions,  brother !" 

"Never  mind  my  expressions.     Is  it  likely  ?" 

"Yes,  Luca,  I  think  it  is  likely  ?" 

With  those  words  he  waved  his  hand  pleasantly  to  his  brother, 
and  went  out. 


232  AFTER  DAKK. 


CHAPTER  in. 

FROM  the  studio  Father  Rocco  went  straight  to  his  own  rooms, 
hard  by  the  church  to  which  he  was  attached.  Opening  a  cabinet 
in  his  study,  he  took  from  one  of  its  drawers  a  handful  of  small  sil- 
ver money,  consulted  for  a  minute  or  so  a  slate  on  which  several 
names  and  addresses  were  written,  provided  himself  with  a  portable 
inkhorn  and  some  strips  of  paper,  and  again  went  out. 

He  directed  his  steps  to  the  poorest  part  of  the  neighborhood ; 
and  entering  some  very  wretched  houses,  was  greeted  by  the  inhab- 
itants with  great  respect  and  affection.  The  women,  especially, 
kissed  his  hands  with  more  reverence  than  they  would  have  shown 
to  the  highest  crowned  head  in  Europe.  In  return,  he  talked  to 
them  as  easily  and  unconstrainedly  as  if  they  were  his  equals ;  sat 
down  cheerfully  on  dirty  bedsides  and  rickety  benches;  and  dis- 
tributed his  little  gifts  of  money  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  pay- 
ing debts  rather  than  bestowing  charity.  Where  he  encountered 
cases  of  illness,  he  pulled  out  his  inkhorn  and  slips  of  paper,  and 
wrote  simple  prescriptions  to  be  made  up  from  the  medicine-chest 
of  a  neighboring  convent,  which  served  the  same  merciful  purpose 
then  that  is  answered  by  dispensaries  in  our  days.  When  he  had 
exhausted  his  money,  and  had  got  through  his  visits,  he  was  escort- 
ed out  of  the  poor  quarter  by  a  perfect  train  of  enthusiastic  follow- 
ers. The  women  kissed  his  hand  again,  and  the  men  uncovered  as 
he  turned,  and,  with  a  friendly  sign,  bade  them  all  farewell. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  again,  he  walked  toward  the  Campo 
Santo,  and,  passing  the  house  in  which  Nanina  lived,  sauntered  up 
and  down  the  street  thoughtfully  for  some  minutes.  When  he  at 
length  ascended  the  steep  staircase  that  led  to  the  room  occupied 
by  the  sisters,  he  found  the  door  ajar.  Pushing  it  open  gently,  he 
saw  La  Biondella  sitting  with  her  pretty,  fair  profile  turned  toward 
him,  eating  her  evening  meal  of  bread  and  grapes.  At  the  opposite 
end  of  the  room,  Scarammuccia  was  perched  up  on  his  hind-quar- 
ters in  a  corner,  with  his  mouth  wide  open  to  catch  the  morsel  of 
bread  which  he  evidently  expected  the  child  to  throw  to  him.  What 
the  elder  sister  was  doing,  the  priest  had  not  time  to  see ;  for  the  dog 
barked  the  moment  he  presented  himself,  and  Nanina  hastened  to 
the  door  to  ascertain  who  the  intruder  might  be.  All  that  he  couiu 
observe  was  that  she  was  too  confused,  on  catching  sight  of  him,  to 
be  able  to  utter  a  word.  La  Biondella  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Thank  you,  Father  Rocco,"  said  the  child,  jumping  up,  with  her 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  233 

bread  in  one  hand  and  her  grapes  in  the  other  — "  thank  you  for 
giving  ine  so  much  money  tor  my  dinner-mats.  There  they  are,  tied 
up  together  in  one  little  parcel,  in  the  corner.  Xanina  said  she  was 
ashamed  to  think  of  your  carrying  them;  and  I  said  I  knew  where 
you  lived,  and  I  should  like  to  ask  you  to  let  me  take  them  home." 
"  Do  you  think  you  can  carry  them  all  the  way,  my  dear  ?"  asked 
the  priest. 

"  Look,  Father  Rocco,  see  if  I  can't  carry  them  !"  cried  La  Bion- 
della,  cramming  her  bread  into  one  of  the  pockets  of  her  little  apron, 
holding  her  bunch  of  grapes  by  the  stalk  in  her  mouth,  and  hoist- 
ing the  packet  of  dinner-mats  on  her  head  in  a  moment.  "  See,  I  am 
strong  enough  to  carry  double,"  said  the  child,  looking  up  proudly 
into  the  priest's  face. 

"  Can  you  trust  her  to  take  them  home  for  me  ?"  asked  Father 
Rocco,  turning  to  Nanina.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone,  and  her 
absence  will  give  me  the  opportunity.  Can  you  trust  her  out  by 
herself?" 

"  Yes,  Father  Rocco,  she  often  goes  out  alone."  Nanina  gave  this 
answer  in  low,  trembling  tones,  and  looked  down  confusedly  on  the 
ground. 

"  Go  then,  my  dear,"  said  Father  Rocco,  patting  the  child  on  the 
shoulder ;  "  and  come  back  here  to  your  sister,  as  soon  as  you  have 
left  the  mats." 

La  Biondella  went  out  directly  in  great  triumph,  with  Scaram- 
muccia  walking  by  her  side,  and  keeping  his  muzzle  suspiciously 
close  to  the  pocket  in  which  she  had  put  her  bread.  Father  Rocco 
closed  the  door  after  them,  and  then,  taking  the  one  chair  which  the 
room  possessed,  motioned  to  Nanina  to  sit  by  him  on  the  stool. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  I  am  your  friend,  my  child,  and  that  I  have 
always  meant  well  toward  you  ?"  he  began. 

"  The  best  and  kindest  of  friends,"  answered  Nanina. 
"  Then  you  will  hear  what  I  have  to  say  patiently,  and  you  will 
believe  that  I  am  speaking  for  your  good,  even  if  my  words  should 
distress  you  ?"  (Nanina  turned  away  her  head.)  "  Now,  tell  me  ; 
should  I  be  wrong,  to  begin  with,  if  I  said  that  my  brother's  pupil, 
the  young  nobleman  whom  we  call '  Signor  Fabio,'  had  been  here  to 
see  you  to-day  ?"  (Nanina  started  up  affrightedly  from  her  stool.) 
"  Sit  down  again,  my  child ;  I  am  not  going  to  blame  you.  I  am 
only  going  to  tell  you  what  you  must  do  for  the  future." 

He  took  her  hand ;  it  was  cold,  and  it  trembled  violently  in  his. 
"  I  will  not  ask  what  he  has  been  saying  to  you,"  continued  the 
priest ;  "  for  it  might  distress  you  to  answer ;  and  I  have,  moreover, 
had  means  of  knowing  that  your  youth  and  beauty  have  made  a 
strong  impression  on  him.  I  will  pass  over,  then,  all  reference  to 
the  words  he  may  have  been  speaking  to  you ;  and  I  will  come  at 

10 


234 

once  to  what  I  have  now  to  say,  in  my  turn.  Nanina,  my  child,  arm 
yourself  with  all  your  courage,  and  promise  me,  before  we  part  to- 
night, that  you  will  see  Signor  Fabio  no  more." 

Nanina  turned  round  suddenly,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  him,  with 
an  expression  of  terrified  incredulity.  "  No  more  ?" 

"You  are  very  young,  and  very  innocent,"  said  Father  Rocco; 
"but  surely  you  must  have  thought  before  now  of  the  difference 
between  Signor  Fabio  and  you.  Surely  you  must  have  often  re- 
membered that  you  are  low  down  among  the  ranks  of  the  poor,  and 
that  he  is  high  up  among  the  rich  and  the  nobly  born  ?" 

Nanina's  hands  dropped  on  the  priest's  knees.  She  bent  her  head 
down  on  them,  and  began  to  weep  bitterly. 

"  Surely  you  must  have  thought  of  that  ?"  reiterated  Father 
Rocco. 

"  Oh,  I  have  often,  often  thought  of  it !"  murmured  the  girl.  "  I 
have  mourned  over  it,  and  cried  about  it  in  secret  for  many  nights 
past.  He  said  I  looked  pale,  and  ill,  and  out  of  spirits  to-day ;  and 
I  told  him  it  was  with  thinking  of  that !" 

"  And  what  did  he  say  in  return  ?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Father  Rocco  looked  down.  Nanina 
raised  her  head  directly  from  his  knees,  and  tried  to  turn  it  away 
again.  He  took  her  hand  and  stopped  her. 

"  Come !"  he  said ;  "  speak  frankly  to  me.  Say  what  you  ought 
to  say  to  your  father  and  your  friend.  What  was  his  answer,  my 
child,  when  you  reminded  him  of  the  difference  between  you  ?" 

"  He  said  I  was  born  to  be  a  lady,"  faltered  the  girl,  still  strug- 
gling to  turn  her  face  away,  "  and  that  I  might  make  myself  one  if  I 
would  learn  and  be  patient.  He  said  that  if  he  had  all  the  noble 
ladies  in  Pisa  to  choose  from  on  one  side,  and  only  little  Nanina  on 
the  other,  he  would  hold  out  his  hand  to  me,  and  tell  them,  '  This 
shall  be  my  wife.'  He  said  love  knew  no  difference  of  rank ;  and 
that  if  he  was  a  nobleman  and  rich,  it  was  all  the  more  reason  why 
he  should  please  himself.  He  was  so  kind,  that  I  thought  my  heart 
would  burst  while  he  was  speaking;  and  my  little  sister  liked  him 
so,  that  she  got  upon  his  knee  and  kissed  him.  Even  our  dog,  who 
growls  at  other  strangers,  stole  to  his  side  and  licked  his  hand.  Oh, 
Father  Rocco !  Father  Rocco  !"  The  tears  burst  out  afresh,  and  the 
lovely  head  dropped  once  more,  wearily,  on  the  priest's  knee. 

Father  Rocco  smiled  to  himself,  and  waited  -to  speak  again  till 
she  was  calmer. 

"  Supposing,"  he  resumed,  after  some  minutes  of  silence,  "  suppos- 
ing Signor  Fabio  really  meant  all  he  said  to  you—" 

Nanina  started  up,  and  confronted  the  priest  boldly  for  the  first 
time  since  he  had  entered  the  room. 

"Supposing!"  she  exclaimed,  her  cheeks  beginning  to  redden, 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  235 

and  her  dark  blue  eyes  flashing  suddenly  through  her  tears.  "  Sup- 
posing !  Father  Rocco,  Fabio  would  never  deceive  me.  I  would 
die  here  at  your  feet,  rather  than  doubt  the  least  word  he  said  to 
me!" 

The  priest  signed  to  her  quietly  to  return  to  the  stool.  "  I  never 
suspected  the  child  had  so  much  spirit  in  her,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self. 

"  I  would  die,"  repeated  Nanina,  in  a  voice  that  began  to  falter 
now.  "  I  would  die  rather  than  doubt  him." 

"I  will  not  ask  you  to  doubt  him,"  said  Father  Rocco,  gently; 
"  and  I  will  believe  in  him  myself  as  firmly  as  you  do.  Let  us  sup- 
pose, my  child,  that  you  have  learned  patiently  all  the  many  things 
of  which  you  are  now  ignorant,  and  which  it  is  necessary  for  a  lady 
to  know.  Let  us  suppose  that  Signor  Fabio  has  really  violated  all 
the  laws  that  govern  people  in  his  high  station,  and  has  taken  you 
to  him  publicly  as  his  wife.  You  would  be  happy  then,  Nanina ; 
but  would  he  ?  He  has  no  father  or  mother  to  control  him,  it  is 
true ;  but  he  has  friends — many  friends  and  intimates  in  his  own 
rank  —  proud,  heartless  people,  who  know  nothing  of  your  worth 
and  goodness ;  who,  hearing  of  your  low  birth,  would  look  on  you, 
and  on  your  husband  too,  my  child,  with  contempt.  He  has  not 
your  patience  and  fortitude.  Think  how  bitter  it  would  be  for  him 
to  bear  that  contempt — to  see  you  shunned  by  proud  women,  and 
carelessly  pitied  or  patronized  by  insolent  men.  Yet  all  this,  and 
more,  he  would  have  to  endure,  or  else  to  quit  the  world  he  has 
lived  in  from  his  boyhood — the  world  he  was  born  to  live  in.  You 
love  him,  I  know — " 

Nanina's  tears  burst  out  afresh.  "  Oh,  how  dearly — how  dearly !" 
she  murmured. 

"  Yes,  you  love  him  dearly,"  continued  the  priest ;  "  but  would 
all  your  love  compensate  him  for  every  thing  else  that  he  must  lose  ? 
It  might,  at  first;  but  there  would  come  a  time  when  the  world 
would  assert  its  influence  over  him  again ;  when  he  would  feel  a 
want  which  you  could  not  supply  —  a  weariness  which  you  could 
not  solace.  Think  of  his  life  then,  and  of  yours.  Think  of  the 
first  day  when  the  first  secret  doubt  whether  he  had  done  rightly  in 
marrying  you  would  steal  into  his  mind.  We  are  not  masters  of  all 
our  impulses.  The  lightest  spirits  have  their  moments  of  irresistible 
ilrpivssion ;  the  bravest  hearts  are  not  always  superior  to  doubt. 
My  child,  my  child,  the  world  is  strong,  the  pride  of  rank  is  rooted 
deep,  and  the  human  will  is  frail  at  best !  Be  warned !  For  your 
own  sake  and  for  Fabio's,  be  warned  in  time." 

Nanina  stretched  out  her  hands  toward  the  priest  in  despair. 

"  Oh,  Father  Rocco !  Father  Rocco  !"  she  cried ;  "  why  did  you 
not  tell  me  this  before  ?" 


236  AFTER  DARK. 

"  Because,  my  child,  I  only  knew  of  the  necessity  for  telling  you 
to-day.  But  it  is  not  too  late ;  it  is  never  too  late  to  do  a  good 
action.  You  love  Fabio,  Nanina  ?  Will  you  prove  that  love  by 
making  a  great  sacrifice  for  his  good  ?" 

"  I  would  die  for  his  good  !" 

"  Will  you  nobly  cure  him  of  a  passion  which  will  be  his  ruin,  if 
not  yours,  by  leaving  Pisa  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Leave  Pisa  !"  exclaimed  Nanina.  Her  face  grew  deadly  pale  ; 
she  rose  and  moved  back  a  step  or  two  from  the  priest. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  pursued  Father  Rocco ;  "  I  have  heard  you  com- 
plain that  you  could  not  get  regular  employment  at  needle-work. 
You  shall  have  that  employment,  if  you  will  go  with  me — you  and 
your  little  sister  too,  of  course — to  Florence  to-morrow." 

"  I  promised  Fabio  to  go  to  the  studio,"  began  Nanina,  affrighted- 
ly.  "  I  promised  to  go  at  ten  o'clock.  How  can  I — " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  her  breath  were  failing  her. 

"  I  myself  will  take  you  and  your  sister  to  Florence,"  said  Father 
Eocco,  without  noticing  the  interruption.  "  I  will  place  you  under 
the  care  of  a  lady  who  will  be  as  kind  as  a  mother  to  you  both.  I 
will  answer  for  your  getting  such  work  to  do  as  will  enable  you  to 
keep  yourself  honestly  and  independently ;  and  I  will  undertake,  if 
you  do  not  like  your  life  at  Florence,  to  bring  you  back  to  Pisa  after 
a  lapse  of  three  months  only.  Three  months,  Nanina.  It  is  not 
a  long  exile." 

"  Fabio  !  Fabio !"  cried  the  girl,  sinking  again  on  the  seat,  and 
hiding  her  face. 

"It  is  for  his  good,"  said  Father  Rocco,  calmly;  "for  Fabio's 
good,  remember." 

"  What  would  he  think  of  me  if  I  went  away  ?  Oh,  if  I  had  but 
learned  to  write  !  If  I  could  only  write  Fabio  a  letter  !" 

"Am  I  not  to  be  depended  on  to  explain  to  him  all  that  he  ought 
to  know  £" 

"  How  can  I  go  away  from  him  ?  Oh !  Father  Rocco,  how  can 
you  ask  me  to  go  away  from  him  ?" 

"I  will  ask  you  to  do  nothing  hastily.  I  will  leave  you  till  to- 
morrow morning  to  decide.  At  nine  o'clock  I  shall  be  in  the  street ; 
and  I  will  not  even  so  much  as  enter  this  house,  unless  I  know  be- 
forehand that  you  have  resolved  to  follow  my  advice.  Give  me  a 
sign  from  your  window.  If  I  see  you  wave  your  white  mantilla  out 
of  it,  I  shall  know  that  you  have  taken  the  noble  resolution  to  save 
Fabio  and  to  save  yourself.  I  will  say  no  more,  my  child  ;  for,  un- 
less I  am  grievously  mistaken  in  you,  I  have  already  said  enough." 

He  went  olit,  leaving  her  still  weeping  bitterly. 

Not  far  from  the  house,  he  met  La  Biondella  and  the  dog  on  their 
way  back.  The  little  girl  stopped  to  report  to  him  the  safe  delivery 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  237 

of  her  dinner -mats;  but  he  passed  on  quickly  with  a  nod  and  a 
smile.  His  interview  with  Nanina  had  left  some  influence  behind 
it,  which  unfitted  him  just  then  for  the  occupation  of  talking  to  a 
child. 

Nearly  half  an  hour  before  nine  o'clock  on  the  following  morning, 
Father  Rocco  set  forth  for  the  street  in  which  Nanina  lived.  On 
hi-  way  thither  he  overtook  a  dog  walking  lazily  a  few  paces  ahead 
in  the  roatl-way ;  and  saw,  at  the  same  time,  an  elegantly-dressed 
lady  advancing  toward  him.  The  dog  stopped  suspiciously  as  she 
approached,  and  growled  and  showed  his  teeth  when  she  passed 
him.  The  lady,  on  her  side,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  disgust,  but 
did  not  seem  to  be  either  astonished  or  frightened  by  the  animal's 
threatening  attitude.  Father  Rocco  looked  after  her  with  some 
curiosity  as  she  walked  by  him.  She  was  a  handsome  woman,  and 
he  admired  her  courage.  "  I  know  that  growling  brute  well 
enough."  lie  -aid  to  himself,  "but  who  can  the  lady  be?" 

The  dog  was  Scarammuccia,  returning  from  one  of  his  marauding 
expeditions.  The  lady  was  Brigida,  on  her  way  to  Luca  Lomi's 
studio. 

Some  minutes  before  nine  o'clock  the  priest  took  his  post  in  the 
street,  opposite  Nanina's  window.  It  was  open ;  but  neither  she 
nor  her  little  sister  appeared  at  it.  He  looked  up  anxiously  as  the 
church-clocks  struck  the  hour ;  but  there  was  no  sign  for  a  minute 
or  so  after  they  were  all  silent.  "  Is  she  hesitating  still  ?"  said  Fa- 
ther Rocco  to  himself. 

.Iu-t  as  the  words  passed  his  lips,  the  white  mantilla  was  waved 
out  of  the  window. 


PART  SECOND.— CHAPTER  I. 

EVEN  the  master-stroke  of  replacing  the  treacherous  Italian  fore- 
woman by  a  French  dress-maker,  engaged  direct  from  Paris,  did  not 
at  first  avail  to  elevate  the  great  Grifoni  establishment  above  the 
reach  of  minor  calamities.  Mademoiselle  Virginie  had  not  occupied 
her  new  situation  at  Pisa  quite  a  week  before  she  fell  ill.  All  sorts 
of  reports  were  circulated  as  to  the  cause  of  this  illness ;  and  the 
/Demoiselle  Grifoni  even  went  so  far  as  to  suggest  that  the  health  of 
the  new  fore-woman  had  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  some  nefarious  practices 
of  the  chemical  sort,  on  the  part  of  her  rival  in  the  trade.  But, 
however  the  misfortune  had  been  produced,  it  was  a  fact  that  Made- 
moiselle Virginie  was  certainly  very  ill,  and  another  fact  that  the 
doctor  insisted  on  her  being  sent  to  the  baths  of  Lucca  as  soon  as 
she  could  bo  moved  from  her  bed. 


238  AFTER  DARK. 

Fortunately  for  the  Demoiselle  Grifoni,  the  Frenchwoman  had 
succeeded  in  producing  three  specimens  of  her  art  before  her  health 
broke  down.  They  comprised  the  evening  dress  of  yellow  brocaded 
silk,  to  which  she  had  devoted  herself  on  the  morning  when  she 
first  assumed  her  duties  at  Pisa ;  a  black  cloak  and  hood  of  an  en- 
tirely new  shape ;  and  an  irresistibly  fascinating  dressing-gown,  said 
to  have  been  first  brought  into  fashion  by  the  princesses  of  the 
blood-royal  of  France.  These  articles  of  costume,  on  being  exhibit- 
ed in  the  show-room,  electrified  the  ladies  of  Pisa ;  and  orders  from 
all  sides  flowed  in  immediately  on  the  Grifoni  establishment.  They 
were,  of  course,  easily  executed  by  the  inferior  work-women,  from 
the  specimen  designs  of  the  French  dress-maker.  So  that  the  ill- 
ness of  Mademoiselle  Virginia,  though  it  might  cause  her  mistress 
some  temporary  inconvenience,  was,  after  all,  productive  of  no  ab- 
solute loss. 

Two  months  at  the  baths  of  Lucca  restored  the  new  fore-woman 
to  health.  She  returned  to  Pisa,  and  resumed  her  place  in  the  pri- 
vate work-room.  Once  re-established  there,  she  discovered  that  an 
important  change  had  taken  place  during  her  absence.  Her  friend 
and  assistant,  Brigida,  had  resigned  her  situation.  All  inquiries 
made  of  the  Demoiselle  Grifoni  only  elicited  one  answer :  the  miss- 
ing work-woman  had  abruptly  left  her  place  at  five  minutes'  warn- 
ing, and  had  departed  without  confiding  to  any  one  what  she 
thought  of  doing,  or  whither  she  intended  to  turn  her  steps. 

Months  elapsed.  The  new  year  came  ;  but  no  explanatory  letter 
arrived  from  Brigida.  The  spring  season  passed  off,  with  all  its  ac- 
companiments of  dress-making  and  dress-buying,  but  still  there  was 
no  news  of  her.  The  first  anniversary  of  Mademoiselle  Virginie's 
engagement  with  the  Demoiselle  Grifoni  came  round ;  and  then  at 
last  a  note  arrived,  stating  that  Brigida  had  returned  to  Pisa,  and 
that  if  the  French  fore-woman  would  send  an  answer,  mentioning 
where  her  private  lodgings  were,  she  would  visit  her  old  friend  that 
evening  after  business  hours.  The  information  was  gladly  enough 
given;  and,  punctually  to  the  appointed  time,  Brigida  arrived  in 
Mademoiselle  Virginie's  little  sitting-room. 

Advancing  with  her  usual  indolent  stateliness  of  gait,  the  Italian 
asked  after  her  friend's  health  as  coolly,  and  sat  down  in  the  nearest 
chair  as  carelessly,  as  if  they  had  not  been  separated  for  more  than 
a  few  days.  Mademoiselle  Virginie  laughed  in  her  liveliest  manner, 
and  raised  her  mobile  French  eyebrows  in  sprightly  astonishment. 

"Well,  Brigida!"  she  exclaimed,  "they  certainly  did  you  no  in- 
justice when  they  nicknamed  you  '  Care-for-Nothing,'  in  old  Grifo- 
ni's  work-room.    Where  have  you  been?    Why  have  you  never  writ- 
ten to  me  ?" 
"  I  had  nothing  particular  to  write  about ;  and  besides,  I  always 


THE   YELLOW    MASK.  239 

Intended  to  come  back  to  Pisa  and  see  you,"  answered  Brigida, 
leaning  back  luxuriously  in  her  chair. 

"  But  where  have  you  been  for  nearly  a  whole  year  past  ?  In  Italy  ?" 

"  No ;  at  Paris.  You  know  I  can  sing  —  not  very  well ;  but  I 
have  a  voice,  and  most  Frenchwomen  (excuse  the  impertinence) 
have  none.  I  met  with  a  friend,  and  got  introduced  to  a  manager ; 
and  I  have  been  singing  at  the  theatre  — not  the  great  parts,  only 
the  second.  Your  amiable  countrywomen  could  not  screech  me 
down  on  the  stage,  but  they  intrigued  against  me  successfully  be- 
hind the  scenes.  In  short,  I  quarreled  with  our  principal  lady,  quar- 
reled with  the  manager,  quarreled  with  my  friend ;  and  here  I  am 
back  at  Pisa,  with  a  little  money  saved  in  my  pocket,  and  no  great 
notion  what  I  am  to  do  next." 

"  Back  at  Pisa !     Why  did  you  leave  it  ?" 

Brigida's  eyes  .began  to  lose  their  indolent  expression.  She  sat 
up  suddenly  in  her  chair,  and  set  one  of  her  hands  heavily  on  a  lit- 
tle table  by  her  side. 

"  Why  ?"  she  repeated.  "  Because  when  I  find  the  game  going 
against  me,  I  prefer  giving  it  up  at  once  to  waiting  to  be  beaten." 

"  Ah !  you  refer  to  that  last  year's  project  of  yours  for  making 
your  fortune  among  the  sculptors.  I  should  like  to  hear  how  it 
was  you  failed  with  the  wealthy  young  amateur.  Remember  that 
I  fell  ill  before  you  had  any  news  to  give  me.  Your  absence  when 
I  returned  from  Lucca,  and,  almost  immediately  afterward,  the  mar- 
riage of  your  intended  conquest  to  the  sculptor's  daughter,  proved 
to  me,  of  course,  that  you  must  have  failed.  But  I  never  heard  how. 
I  know  nothing  at  this  moment  but  the  bare  fact  that  Maddalena 
Lomi  won  the  prize." 

"  Tell  me  first,  do  she  and  her  husband  live  together  happily  ?" 

"  There  are  no  stories  of  their  disagreeing.  She  has  dresses, 
horses,  carriages,  a  negro  page,  the  smallest  lap-dog  in  Italy  —  in 
short,  all  the  luxuries  that  a  woman  can  want;  and  a  child,  by-the- 
bye,  into  the  bargain." 

"A  child!" 

"Yes;  a  child, born  little  more  than  a  week  ago." 

"Not  a  boy,  I  hope?" 

"No;  a  girl." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.    Those  rich  people  always  want  the  first-born 
fo  be  an  heir.    They  will  both  be  disappointed.    I  am  glad  of  that." 
•  Mercy  on  us.  Brigida,  how  fierce  you  look!" 

"  Do  I  ?  It's  likely  enough.  I  hate  Fabio  d'Ascoli  and  Madda- 
lena Lomi  —  singly  as  man  and  woman,  doubly  as  man  and  wife. 
Stop!  I'll  tell  you  what  you  want  to  know  directly.  Only  answer 
me  another  question  or  two  first.  Have  you  heard  any  thing  about 
her  health  ?" 


240  AFTEK  DAKK. 

"  How  should  I  hear  ?  Dress-makers  can't  inquire  at  the  doors 
of  the  nobility." 

"True.     Now  one  last  question.     That  little  simpleton,  Nanina  ?" 

"  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  any  thing  of  her.  She  can't  be  at 
Pisa,  or  she  would  have  called  at  our  place  for  work." 

"Ah !  I  need  not  have  asked  about  her  if  I  had  thought  a  mo- 
ment beforehand.  Father  Rocco  would  be  sure  to  keep  her  out  of 
Fabio's  sight,  for  his  niece's  sake." 

"  What,  he  really  loved  that '  thread-paper  of  a  girl'  as  you  called 
her  ?" 

"Better  than  fifty  such  wives  as  he  has  got  now!  I  was  in  the 
studio  the  morning  he  was  told  of  her  departure  from  Pisa.  A  let- 
ter was  privately  given  to  him,  telling  him  that  the  girl  had  left  the 
place  out  of  a  feeling  of  honor,  and  had  hidden  herself  beyond  the 
possibility  of  discovery,  to  prevent  him  from  compromising  himself 
with  all  his  friends  by  marrying  her.  Naturally  enough,  he  would 
not  believe  that  this  was  her  own  doing;  and,  naturally  enough 
also,  when  Father  Rocco  was  sent  for,  and  was  not  to  be  found,  he 
suspected  the  priest  of  being  at  the  bottom  of  the  business.  I  never 
saw  a  man  in  such  a  fury  of  despair  and  rage  before.  He  swore  that 
he  would  have  all  Italy  searched  for  the  girl,  that  he  would  be  the 
death  of  the  priest,  and  that  he  would  never  enter  Luca  Lomi's  stu- 
dio again — " 

"  And,  as  to  .this  last  particular,  of  course,  being  a  man,  he  failed 
to  keep  his  word  ?" 

"  Of  course.  At  that  first  visit  of  mine  to  the  studio  I  discovered 
two  things.  The  first,  as  I  said,  that  Fabio  was  really  in  love  with 
the  girl — the  second,  that  Maddalena  Lomi  was  really  in  love  with 
him.  You  may  suppose  I  looked  at  her  attentively  while  the  dis- 
turbance was  going  on,  and  while  nobody's  notice  was  directed  on 
me.  All  women  are  vain,  I  know,  but  vanity  never  blinded  my 
eyes.  I  saw  directly  that  I  had  but  one  superiority  over  her — my 
figure.  She  was  my  height,  but  not  well  made.  She  had  hair  as 
dark  and  as  glossy  as  mine ;  eyes  as  bright  and  as  black  as  mine ; 
and  the  rest  of  her  face  better  than  mine.  My  nose  is  coarse,  my 
lips  are  too  thick,  and  my  upper  lip  overhangs  my  under  too  far. 
She  had  none  of  those  personal  faults ;  and,  as  for  capacity,  she 
managed  the  young  fool  in  his  passion  as  well  as  I  could  have  man- 
aged him  in  her  place." 

"  How  ?" 

"  She  stood  silent,  with  downcast  eyes  and  a  distressed  look,  all 
the  time  he  was  raving  up  and  down  the  studio.  She  must  have 
hated  the  girl,  and  been  rejoiced  at  her  disappearance ;  but  she 
never  showed  it.  '  You  would  be  an  awkward  rival '  (I  thought  to 
myself), '  even  to  a  handsomer  woman  than  I  am.'  However,  I  de- 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  241 

termined  not  to  despair  too  soon,  and  made  up  my  mind  to  follow 
my  plan  just  as  if  the  accident  of  the  girl's  disappearance  had  never 
occurred.  I  smoothed  down  the  master  -  sculptor  easily  enough — 
fluttering  him  about  his  reputation,  assuring  him  that  the  works  of 
Luca  Lomi  had  been  the  objects  of  my  adoration  since  childhood, 
telling  him  that  I  had  heard  of  his  difficulty  in  finding  a  model  to 
complete  his  Minerva  from,  and  offering  myself  (if  he  thought  me 
worthy)  for  the  honor — laying  great  stress  on  that  word — for  the 
honor  of  sitting  to  him.  I  don't  know  whether  he  was  altogether 
deceived  by  what  I  told  him ;  but  he  was  sharp  enough  to  see  that 
I  really  could  be  of  use,  and  he  accepted  my  offer  with  a  profusion 
of  compliments.  We  parted,  having  arranged  that  I  was  to  give 
him  a  first  sitting  in  a  week's  time." 
"  Why  put  it  off  so  long  ?" 

"  To  allow  our  young  gentleman  time  to  cool  down  and  return  to 
the  studio,  to  be  sure.  What  was  the  jise  of  my  being  there  while 
he  was  away  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes — I  forgot.  And  how  long  was  it  before  he  came  back  ?" 
"  I  had  allowed  him  more  time  than  enough.  When  I  had  given 
my  first  sitting  I  saw  him  in  the  studio,  and  heard  it  was  his  sec- 
ond visit  there  since  the  day  of  the  girl's  disappearance.  Those 
very  violent  men  are  always  changeable  and  irresolute." 
"  Had  he  made  no  attempt,  then,  to  discover  Nanina  ?" 
"  Oh  yes !  He  had  searched  for  her  himself,  and  had  set  others 
searching  for  her,  but  to  no  purpose.  Four  days  of  perpetual  disap- 
point mrnt  had  been  enough  to  bring  him  to  his  senses.  Luca  Lomi 
had  written  him  a  peace-making  letter,  asking  what  harm  he  or  his 
daughter  had  done,  even  supposing  Father  Rocco  was  to  blame. 
Maddalena  Lomi  had  met  him  in  the  street,  and  had  looked  resign- 
edly away  from  him,  as  if  she  expected  him  to  pass  her.  In  short, 
they  had  awakened  his  sense  of  justice  and  his  good  nature  (you  see, 
I  can  impartially  give  him  his  due),  and  they  had  got  him  back. 
He  was  silent  and  sentimental  enough  at  first,  and  shockingly  sulky 
and  savage  with  the  priest — ' 

''  I  wonder  Father  Rocco  ventured  within  his  reach." 
"  Father  Rocco  is  not  a  man  to  be  daunted  or  defeated  by  any 
body,  I  can  tell  you.  The  same  day  on  which  Fabio  came  back  to 
the  studio,  he  returned  to  it.  Beyond  boldly  declaring  that  he 
thought  Nanina  had  done  quite  right,  and  had  acted  like  a  good 
and  virtuous  girl,  he  would  say  nothing  about  her  or  her  disappear- 
ance. It  was  quite  useless  to  ask  him  questions  —  he  denied  that 
any  one  had  a  right  to  put  them.  Threatening,  entreating,  flatter- 
ing— all  modes  of  appeal  were  thrown  away  on  him.  Ah,  my  dear! 
depend  upon  it,  the  cleverest  and  politest  man  in  Pisa,  the  most 
dangerous  to  an  enemy  and  the  most  delightful  to  a  friend,  is  Fa- 

10* 


242  AFTER   DARK. 

ther  Rocco.  The  rest  of  them,  when  I  began  to  play  my  cards  a 
little  too  openly,  behaved  with  brutal  rudeness  to  me.  Father  Roc- 
co, from  first  to  last,  treated  me  like  a  lady.  Sincere  or  not,  I  don't 
care — he  treated  me  like  a  lady  when  the  others  treated  me  like — 

"  There  !  there  !  don't  get  hot  about  it  now.  Tell  me  instead  how 
you  made  your  first  approaches  to  the  young  gentleman  whom  you 
talk  of  so  contemptuously  as  Fabio." 

"  As  it  turned  out,  in  the  worst  possible  way.  First,  of  course,  I 
made  sure  of  interesting  him  in  me  by  telling  him  that  I  had  known 
Nanina.  So  far  it  was  all  well  enough.  My  next  object  was  to  per- 
suade him  that  she  could  never  have  gone  away  if  she  had  truly 
loved  him  alone ;  and  that  he  must  have  had  some  fortunate  rival 
in  her  own  rank  of  life,  to  whom  she  had  sacrificed  him,  after  grat- 
ifying her  vanity  for  a  time  by  bringing  a  young  nobleman  to  her 
feet.  I  had,  as  you  will  easily  imagine,  difficulty  enough  in  making 
him  take  this  view  of  NanUia's  flight.  His  pride  and  his  love  for 
the  girl  were  both  concerned  in  refusing  to  admit  the  truth  of  my 
suggestion.  At  last  I  succeeded.  I  brought  him  to  that  state  of 
ruffled  vanity  and  fretful  self-assertion  in  which  it  is  easiest  to  work 
on  a  man's  feelings — in  which  a  man's  own  wounded  pride  makes 
the  best  pitfall  to  catch  him  in.  I  brought  him,  I  say,  to  that  state, 
and  then  sTie  stepped  in  and  profited  by  what  I  had  done.  Is  it 
wonderful  now  that  I  rejoice  in  her  disappointments — that  I  should 
be  glad  to  hear  any  ill  thing  of  her  that  any  one  could  tell  me  ?" 

"  But  how  did  she  first  get  the  advantage  of  you  ?" 

"  If  I  had  found  out,  she  would  never  have  succeeded  where  I 
failed.  All  I  know  is,  that  she  had  more  opportunities  of  seeing 
him  than  I,  and  that  she  used  them  cunningly  enough  even  to  de- 
ceive me.  While  I  thought  I  was  gaining  ground  with  Fabio,  I  was 
actually  losing  it.  My  first  suspicions  were  excited  by  a  change  in 
Luca  Lomi's  conduct  toward  me.  He  grew  cold,  neglectful — at  last 
absolutely  rude.  I  was  resolved  not  to  see  this ;  but  accident  soon 
obliged  me  to  open  my  eyes.  One  morning  I  heard  Fabio  and  Mad- 
dalena  talking  of  me  when  they  imagined  I  had  left  the  studio.  I 
can't  repeat  their  words,  especially  hers.  The  blood  flies  into  my 
head,  and  the  cold  catches  me  at  the  heart,  when  I  only  think  of 
them.  It  will  be  enough  if  I  tell  you  that  he  laughed  at  me,  and 
that  she—" 

"Hush!  not  so  loud.  There  are  other  people  lodging  in  the 
house.  Never  mind  about  telling  me  what  you  heard ;  it  only  irri- 
tates you  to  no  purpose.  I  can  guess  that  they  had  discovered — " 

"  Through  her — remember,  all  through  her !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  They  had  discovered  a  great  deal  more 
than  you  ever  intended  them  to  know,  and  all  through  her." 

"  But  for  the  priest,  Virginie,  I  should  have  been  openly  insulted 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  243 

and  driven  from  their  doors.  He  had  insisted  on  their  behaving 
with  decent  civility  toward  me.  They  said  that  he  was  afraid  of 
me,  ami  laughed  at  the  notion  of  his  trying  to  make  them  afraid 
too.  That  was  the  last  thing  I  heard.  The  fury  I  was  in,  and  the 
necessity  of  keeping  it  down,  almost  suffocated  me.  I  turned  round 
to  leave  the  place  forever,  when,  who  should  I  see,  standing  close 
behind  me,  but  Father  Rocco.  He  must  have  discovered  in  my  face 
that  I  knew  all,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it.  He  only  asked,  in  his 
usual  quiet,  polite  way,  if  I  was  looking  for  any  thing  I  had  lost,  and 
if  he  could  help  me.  I  managed  to  thank  him,  and  to  get  to  the 
door.  He  opened  it  for  me  respectfully,  and  bowed — he  treated  me 
like  a  lady  to  the  last !  It  was  evening  when  I  left  the  studio  in 
that  way.  The  next  morning  I  threw  up  my  situation,  and  turned 
my  back  on  Pisa.  Now  you  know  every  thing." 

"  Did  you  hear  of  the  marriage  ?  or  did  you  only  assume  from 
what  you  knew  that  it  would  take  place  t" 

"  I  heard  of  it  about  six  months  ago.  A  man  came  to  sing  in  the 
chorus  at  our  theatre  who  had  been  employed  some  time  before  at 
the  grand  concert  given  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage.  But  let 
us  drop  the  subject  now.  I  am  in  a  fever  already  with  talking  of  it. 
You  are  in  a  bad  situation  here,  my  dear;  I  declare  your  room  is 
almost  stifling." 

"  Shall  I  open  the  other  window  ?" 

"No;  let  us  go  out  and  get  a  breath  of  air  by  the  river-side. 
Come !  take  your  hood  and  fan — it  is  getting  dark — nobody  will 
see  us,  and  we  can  come  back  here,  if  you  like,  in  half  an  hour." 

Mademoiselle  Virginie  acceded  to  her  friend's  wish  rather  reluc- 
tantly. They  walked  toward  the  river.  The  sun  was  down,  and  the 
sudden  night  of  Italy  was  gathering  fast.  Although  Brigida  did 
not  say  another  word  on  the  subject  of  Fabio  or  his  wife,  she  led 
the  way  to  the  bank  of  the  Arno,  on  which  the  young  nobleman's 
palace  stood. 

Just  as  they  got  near  the  great  door  of  entrance,  a  sedan-chair, 
approaching  in  the  opposite  direction,  was  set  down  before  it ;  and 
a  footman,  after  a  moment's  conference  with  a  lady  inside  the  chair, 
advanced  to  the  porter's  lodge  in  the  court -yard.  Leaving  her 
friend  to  go  on,  Brigida  slipped  in  after  the  servant  by  the  open 
wicket,  and  concealed  herself  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  great  closed 
gates. 

"  The  Marchesa  Melani,  to  inquire  how  the  Countess  D'Ascoli  and 
the  infant  are  this  evening,"  said  the  footman. 

"  My  mistress  has  not  changed  at  all  for  the  better  since  the  morn- 
ing," answered  the  porter.  u  The  child  is  doing  quite  well." 

The  footman  went  back  to  the  sedan-chair;  then  returned  to  the 
porter's  lodge. 


244  AFTER  DARK. 

"  The  marchesa  desires  me  to  ask  if  fresh  medical  advice  has  been 
sent  for,"  he  said. 

"Another  doctor  has  arrived  from  Florence  to-day,"  replied  the 
porter. 

Mademoiselle  Virginie,  missing  her  friend  suddenly,  turned  back 
toward  the  palace  to  look  after  her,  and  was  rather  surprised  to  see 
Brigida  slip  out  of  the  wicket -gate.  There  were  two  oil  lamps 
burning  on  pillars  outside  the  door-way,  and  their  light  glancing  on 
the  Italian's  face,  as  she  passed  under  them,  showed  that  she  was 
smiling. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHILE  the  Marchesa  Melani  was  making  inquiries  at  the  gate  of 
the  palace,  Fabio  was  sitting  alone  in  the  apartment  which  his  wife 
usually  occupied  when  she  was  in  health.  It  was  her  favorite  room, 
and  had  been  prettily  decorated,  by  her  own  desire,  with  hangings 
in  yellow  satin  and  furniture  of  the  same  color.  Fabio  was  now 
waiting  in  it,  to  hear  the  report  of  the  doctors  after  their  evening 
visit. 

Although  Maddalena  Lomi  had  not  been  his  first  love,  and  al- 
though he  had  married  her  under  circumstances  which  are  general- 
ly and  rightly  considered  to  afford  few  chances  of  lasting  happiness 
in  wedded  life,  still  they  had  lived  together  through  the  one  year 
of  their  union  tranquilly,  if  not  fondly.  She  had  moulded  herself 
wisely  to  his  peculiar  humors,  had  made  the  most  of  his  easy  dis- 
position ;  and,  when  her  quick  temper  had  got  the  better  of  her,  had 
seldom  hesitated  in  her  cooler  moments  to  acknowledge  that  she 
had  been  wrong.  She  had  been  extravagant,  it  is  true,  and  had  ir- 
ritated him  by  fits  of  unreasonable  jealousy ;  but  these  were  faults 
not  to  be  thought  of  now.  He  could  only  remember  that  she  was 
the  mother  of  his  child,  and  that  she  lay  ill  but  two  rooms  away 
from  him — dangerously  ill,  as  the  doctors  had  unwillingly  confessed 
on  that  very  day. 

The  darkness  was  closing  in  upon  him,  and  he  took  up  the  hand- 
bell to  ring  for  lights.  When  the  servant  entered  there  was  genuine 
sorrow  in  his  face,  genuine  anxiety  in  his  voice,  as  he  inquired  for 
news  from  the  sick-room.  The  man  only  answered  that  his  mistress 
was  still  asleep,  and  then  withdrew,  after  first  leaving  a  sealed  letter 
on  the  table  by  his  master's  side.  Fabio  summoned  him  back  into 
the  room,  and  asked  when  the  letter  had  arrived.  He  replied  that 
it  had  been  delivered  at  the  palace  two  days  since,  and  that  he  had 
observed  it  lying  unopened  on  a  desk  in  his  master's  study. 

Left  alone  again,  Fabio  remembered  that  the  letter  had  arrived  at 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  245 

a  time  when  the  first  dangerous  symptoms  of  his  wife's  illness  had 
declared  themselves,  and  that  he  had  thrown  it  aside,  after  observ- 
ing the  address  to  be  in  a  handwriting  unknown  to  him.  In  his 
present  state  of  suspense,  any  occupation  was  better  than  sitting 
idle.  So  he  took  up  the  letter  with  a  sigh,  broke  the  seal,  and 
turned  inquiringly  to  the  name  signed  at  the  end. 

It  was  "  NANINA." 

He  started,  and  changed  color.  "  A  letter  from  her,"  he  whisper- 
ed to  himself.  "  Why  does  it  come  at  such  a  time  as  this  ?" 

His  face  grew  paler,  and  the  letter  trembled  in  his  fingers.  Those 
superstitious  feelings  which  he  had  ascribed  to  the  nursery  influences 
of  his  childhood,  when  Father  Rocco  charged  him  with  them  in  the 
studio,  seemed  to  be  overcoming  him  now.  He  hesitated,  and  listen- 
ed anxiously  in  the  direction  of  his  wife's  room,  before  reading  the 
letter.  Was  its  arrival  ominous  of  good  or  evil?  That  was  the 
thought  in  his  heart  as  he  drew  the  lamp  near  to  him,  and  looked 
at  the  first  lines. 

"Am  I  wrong  in  writing  to  you?"  (the  letter  began  abruptly). 
"  If  I  am,  you  have  but  to  throw  this  little  leaf  of  paper  into  the 
fire,  and  to  think  no  more  of  it  after  it  is  burned  up  and  gone.  I 
can  never  reproach  you  for  treating  my  letter  in  that  way ;  for  we 
are  never  likely  to  meet  again. 

"  Why  did  I  go  away  ?  Only  to  save  you  from  the  consequences 
of  marrying  a  poor  girl  who  was  not  fit  to  become  your  wife.  It 
almost  broke  my  heart  to  leave  you ;  for  I  had  nothing  to  keep  up 
my  courage  but  the  remembrance  that  I  was  going  away  for  your 
sake.  I  had  to  think  of  that,  morning  and  night  —  to  think  of  it 
always,  or  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  faltered  in  my  resolution,  and 
have  gone  back  to  Pisa.  I  longed  so  much  at  first  to  see  you  once 
more — only  to  tell  you  that  Nanina  was  not  heartless  and  ungrate- 
ful, and  that  you  might  pity  her  and  think  kindly  of  her,  though 
you  might  love  her  no  longer. 

"  Only  to  tell  you  that !  If  I  had  been  a  lady  I  might  have  told 
it  to  you  in  a  letter ;  but  I  had  never  learned  to  write,  and  I  could 
not  prevail  on  myself  to  get  others  to  take  the  pen  for  me.  All  I 
could  do  was  to  learn  secretly  how  to  write  with  my  own  hand. 
It  was  long,  long  work ;  but  the  uppermost  thought  in  my  heart 
was  always  the  thought  of  justifying  myself  to  you,  and  that  made 
me  patient  and  persevering.  I  learned,  at  last,  to  write  so  as  not  to 
be  ashamed  of  myself,  or  to  make  you  ashamed  of  me.  I  began  a 
letter — my  first  letter  to  you — but  I  heard  of  your  marriage  before 
it  was  done,  and  then  I  had  to  tear  the  paper  up,  and  put  the  pen 
down  again. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  come  between  you  and  your  wife,  even  with  so 
little  a  thing  as  a  letter ;  I  had  no  right  to  do  any  thing  but  hope 


246  AFTER   DARK. 

and  pray  for  your  happiness.  Are  you  happy  ?  I  am  sure  you 
ought  to  be  ;  for  how  can  your  wife  help  loving  you  ? 

"  It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  explain  why  I  have  ventured  on  writ- 
ing now,  and  yet  I  can't  think  that  I  am  doing  wrong.  I  heard  a 
few  days  ago  (for  I  have  a  friend  at  Pisa  who  keeps  me  informed, 
by  my  own  desire,  of  all  the  pleasant  changes  in  your  life) — I  heard 
of  your  child  being  born;  and  I  thought  myself,  after  that,  justified 
at  last  in  writing  to  you.  No  letter  from  me,  at  such  a  time  as  this, 
can  rob  your  child's  mother  of  so  much  as  a  thought  of  yours  that 
is  due  to  her.  Thus,  at  least,  it  seems  to  me.  I  wish  so  well  to 
your  child,  that  I  can  not  surely  be  doing  wrong  in  writing  these 
lines. 

"  I  have  said  already  what  I  wanted  to  say  —  what  I  have  been 
longing  to  say  for  a  whole  year  past.  I  have  told  you  why  I  left 
Pisa ;  and  have,  perhaps,  persuaded  you  that  I  have  gone  through 
some  suffering,  and  borne  some  heart-aches  for  your  sake.  Have  I 
more  to  write  ?  Only  a  word  or  two,  to  tell  you  that  I  am  earning 
my  bread,  as  I  always  wished  to  earn  it,  quietly  at  home — at  least,  at 
what  I  must  call  home  now.  I  am  living  with  reputable  people,  and 
I  want  for  nothing.  La  Biondella  has  grown  very  much  ;  she  would 
hardly  be  obliged  to  get  on  your  knee  to  kiss  you  now ;  and  she  can 
plait  her  dinner-mats  faster  and  more  neatly  than  ever.  Our  old 
dog  is  with  us,  and  has  learned  two  new  tricks ;  but  you  can't  be 
expected  to  remember  him,  although  you  were  the  only  stranger  I 
ever  saw  him  take  kindly  to  at  first. 

"  It  is  time  I  finished.  If  you  have  read  this  letter  through  to  the 
end,  I  am  sure  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  have  written  it  badly.  There 
is  no  date  to  it,  because  I  feel  that  it  is  safest  and  best  for  both  of 
us  that  you  should  know  nothing  of  where  I  am  living.  I  bless 
you  and  pray  for  you,  and  bid  you  affectionately  farewell.  If  you 
can  think  of  me  as  a  sister,  think  of  me  sometimes  still." 

Fabio  sighed  bitterly  while  he  read  the  letter.  "  Why,"  he  whis- 
pered to  himself,  "why  does  it  come  at  such  a  time  as  this,  when  I 
can  not,  dare  not  think  of  her  ?"  As  he  slowly  folded  the  letter  up 
the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  half  raised  the  paper  to  his  lips. 
At  the  same  moment,  some  one  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  room. 
He  started,  and  felt  himself  changing  color  guiltily  as  one  of  his 
servants  entered. 

"My  mistress  is  awake,"  the  man  said,  with  a  very  grave  face, 
and  a  very  constrained  manner ;  "  and  the  gentlemen  in  attendance 
desire  me  to  say — " 

He  was  interrupted,  before  he  could  give  his  message,  by  one  of 
the  medical  men,  who  had  followed  him  into  the  room. 

"  I  wish  I  had  better  news  to  communicate,"  began  the  doctor, 
gently. 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  247 

"  She  is  worse,  then  ?"  said  Fabio,  sinking  back  into  the  chair 
from  which  he  had  risen  the  moment  before. 

"  She  has  awakened  weaker  instead  of  stronger  after  her  sleep," 
returned  the  doctor,  evasively.  "  I  never  like  to  give  up  all  hope 
till  the  very  last,  but—" 

"  It  is  cruel  not  to  be  candid  with  him,"  interposed  another  voice 
— the  voice  of  the  doctor  from  Florence,  who  had  just  entered  the 
room.  "  Strengthen  yourself  to  bear  the  worst,"  he  continued,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Fabio.  "  She  is  dying.  Can  you  compose  your- 
self enough  to  go  to  her  bedside  ?" 

Pale  and  speechless,  Fabio  rose  from  his  chair,  and  made  a  sign 
in  the  affirmative.  He  trembled  so  that  the  doctor  who  had  first 
spoken  was  obliged  to  lead  him  out  of  the  room. 

"  Your  mistress  has  some  near  relations  in  Pisa,  has  she  not  ?" 
said  the  doctor  from  Florence,  appealing  to  the  servant  who  waited 
near  him. 

"  Her  father,  sir,  Signor  Luca  Lomi ;  and  her  uncle,  Father  Roc- 
co,"  answered  the  man.  "They  were  here  all  through  the  day, 
until  my  mistress  fell  asleep." 

"  Do  you  know  where  to  find  them  now  ?" 

"  Signor  Luca  told  me  he  should  be  at  his  studio,  and  Father 
Rocco  said  I  might  find  him  at  his  lodgings." 

"  Send  for  them  both  directly.  Stay,  who  is  your  mistress's  con- 
fessor ?  He  ought  to  be  summoned  without  loss  of  time." 

"  My  mistress's  confessor  is  Father  Rocco,  sir." 

"  Very  well — send,  or  go  yourself,  at  once.  Even  minutes  may  be 
of  importance  now."  Saying  this,  the  doctor  turned  away,  and  sat 
down  to  wait  for  any  last  demands  on  his  services,  in  the  chair 
which  Fabio  had  just  left. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BEFORE  the  servant  could  get  to  the  priest's  lodgings  a  visitor 
had  applied  there  for  admission,  and  had  been  immediately  received 
by  Father  Rocco  himself.  This  favored  guest  was  a  little  man,  very 
sprucely  and  neatly  dressed,  and  oppressively  polite  in  his  manner. 
He  bowed  when  he  first  sat  down,  he  bowed  when  he  answered  the 
usual  inquiries  about  his  health,  and  he  bowed,  for  the  third  time, 
when  Father  Rocco  asked  what  had  brought  him  from  Florence. 

"  Rather  an  awkward  business,"  replied  the  little  man,  recovering 
himself  uneasily  after  his  third  bow.  "  The  dress-maker,  named 
Nanina,  whom  you  placed  under  my  wife's  protection  about  a  year 
ago — " 


248  AFTER   DAKK. 

"  What  of  her  ?"  inquired  the  priest,  eagerly. 

"I  regret  to  say  she  has  left  us,  with  her  child-sister,  and  their 
very  disagreeable  dog,  that  growls  at  every  body." 

"  When  did  they  go  ?" 

"  Only  yesterday.  I  came  here  at  once  to  tell  you,  as  you  were  so 
very  particular  in  recommending  us  to  take  care  of  her.  It  is  not 
our  fault  that  she  has  gone.  My  wife  was  kindness  itself  to  her, 
and  I  always  treated  her  like  a  duchess.  I  bought  dinner-mats  of 
her  sister ;  I  even  put  up  with  the  thieving  and  growling  of  the  dis- 
agreeable dog — " 

"  Where  have  they  gone  to  ?     Have  you  found  out  that  ?" 

"  I  have  found  out,  by  application  at  the  passport-office,  that  they 
have  not  left  Florence — but  what  particular  part  of  the  city  they 
have  removed  to,  I  have  not  yet  had  time  to  discover." 

"  And  pray  why  did  they  leave  you,  in  the  first  place  ?  Nanina  is 
not  a  girl  to  do  any  thing  without  a  reason.  She  must  have  had 
some  cause  for  going  away.  What  was  it  ?" 

The  little  man  hesitated,  and  made  a  fourth  bow. 

"  You  remember  your  private  instructions  to  my  wife  and  myself, 
when  you  first  brought  Nanina  to  our  house  ?"  he  said,  looking 
away  rather  uneasily  while  he  spoke. 

"  Yes ;  you  were  to  watch  her,  but  to  take  care  that  she  did  not 
suspect  you.  It  was  just  possible,  at  that  time,  that  she  might  try 
to  get  back  to  Pisa  without  my  knowing  it ;  and  every  thing  de- 
pended on  her  remaining  at  Florence.  I  think,  now,  that  I  did 
wrong  to  distrust  her;  but  it  was  of  the  last  importance  to  provide 
against  all  possibilities,  and  to  abstain  from  putting  too  much  faith 
in  my  own  good  opinion  of  the  girl.  For  these  reasons,  I  certainly 
did  instruct  you  to  watch  her  privately.  So  far  you  are  quite  right ; 
and  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  Go  on." 

"  You  remember,"  resumed  the  little  man,  "  that  the  first  conse- 
quence of  our  following  your  instructions  was  a  discovery  (which 
we  immediately  communicated  to  you)  that  she  was  secretly  learn- 
ing to  write  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  also  remember  sending  you  word  not  to  show  that 
you  knew  what  she  was  doing ;  but  to  wait  and  see  if  she  turned 
her  knowledge  of  writing  to  account,  and  took  or  sent  any  letters 
to  the  post.  You  informed  me,  in  your  regular  monthly  report,  that 
she  never  did  any  thing  of  the  kind." 

"  Never,  until  three  days  ago ;  and  then  she  was  traced  from  her 
room  in  my  house  to  the  post-office  with  a  letter,  which  she  dropped 
into  the  box." 

"And  the  address  of  which  you  discovered  before  she  took  it  from 
your  house  ?" 

"Unfortunately  I  did  not,"  answered  the  little  man,  reddening 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  249 

and  looking  askance  at  the  priest,  as  if  he  expected  to  receive  a  se- 
vere reprimand. 

But  Father  Rocco  said  nothing.  He  was  thinking.  Who  could 
she  have  written  to  ?  If  to  Fabio,  why  should  she  have  waited  for 
months  and  months,  after  she  had  learned  how  to  use  her  pen,  be- 
fore sending  him  a  letter  ?  If  not  to  Fabio,  to  what  other  person 
could  she  have  written  ? 

"I  regret  not  discovering  the  address — regret  it  most  deeply," 
said  the  little  man,  with  a  low  bow  of  apology. 

"  It  is  too  late  for  regret,"  said  Father  Rocco,  coldly.  "  Tell  me 
how  she  came  to  leave  your  house ;  I  have  not  heard  that  yet.  Be 
as  brief  as  you  can.  I  expect  to  be  called  every  moment  to  the  bed- 
side of  a  near  and  dear  relation,  who  is  suffering  from  severe  illness. 
You  shall  have  all  my  attention ;  but  you  must  ask  it  for  as  short  a 
time  as  possible." 

"  I  will  be  briefness  itself.  In  the  first  place,  you  must  know  that 
I  have — or  rather  had — an  idle,  unscrupulous  rascal  of  an  apprentice 
in  my  business." 

The  priest  pursed  up  his  mouth  contemptuously. 

"  In  the  second  place,  this  same  good-for-nothing  fellow  had  the 
impertinence  to  fall  in  love  with  Nanina." 

Father  Rocco  started,  and  listened  eagerly. 

"  But  I  must  do  the  girl  the  justice  to  say  that  she  never  gave 
him  the  slightest  encouragement ;  and  that,  whenever  he  ventured  to 
speak  to  her,  she  always  quietly  but  very  decidedly  repelled  him." 

"A  good  girl!"  said  Father  Rocco.  "I  always  said  she  was  a 
good  girl.  It  was  a  mistake  on  my  part  ever  to  have  distrusted 
her." 

"  Among  the  other  offenses,"  continued  the  little  man, "  of  which 
I  now  find  my  scoundrel  of  an  apprentice  to  have  been  guilty,  was 
the  enormity  of  picking  the  lock  of  my  desk,  and  prying  into  my 
private  papers." 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  had  any.  Private  papers  should  always 
be  burned  papers." 

"  They  shall  be  for  the  future;  I  will  take  good  care  of  that." 

"  Were  any  of  my  letters  to  you  about  Nanina  among  these  pri- 
vate papers?" 

"  Unfortunately  they  were.  Pray,  pray  excuse  my  want  of  caution 
this  time.  It  shall  never  happen  again." 

"  Go  on.  Such  imprudence  as  yours  can  never  be  excused ;  it  can 
only  be  provided  against  for  the  future.  I  suppose  the  apprentice 
showed  my  letters  to  the  girl  ?" 

"  I  infer  as  much  ;  though  why  he  should  do  so — " 

"  Simpleton  !  Did  you  not  say  that  he  was  in  love  with  her  (as 
you  term  it),  and  that  he  got  no  encouragement?" 


250  AFTER  DARK. 

"  Yes ;  I  said  that — and  I  know  it  to  be  true." 

"  Well !  Was  it  not  his  interest,  being  unable  to  make  any  im- 
pression on  the  girl's  fancy,  to  establish  some  claim  to  her  grati- 
tude ;  and  try  if  he  could  not  win  her  that  way  ?  By  showing  her 
my  letters,  he  would  make  her  indebted  to  him  for  knowing  that 
she  was  watched  in  your  house.  But  this  is  not  the  matter  in  ques- 
tion now.  You  say  you  infer  that  she  had  seen  my  letters.  On 
what  grounds  ?" 

"  On  the  strength  of  this  bit  of  paper,"  answered  the  little  man, 
ruefully  producing  a  note  from  his  pocket.  "  She  must  have  had 
your  letters  shown  to  her  soon  after  putting  her  own  letter  into  the 
post.  For,  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  when  I  went  up  into  her 
room,  I  found  that  she  and  her  sister  and  the  disagreeable  dog  had 
all  gone,  and  observed  this  note  laid  on  the  table." 

Father  Rocco  took  the  note,  and  read  these  lines : 

"  I  have  just  discovered  that  I  have  been  watched  and  suspected 
ever  since  my  stay  under  your  roof.  It  is  impossible  that  I  can  re- 
main another  night  in  the  house  of  a  spy.  I  go  with  my  sister.  We 
owe  you  nothing,  and  we  are  free  to  live  honestly  where  we  please. 
If  you  see  Father  Rocco,  tell  him  that  I  can  forgive  his  distrust  of 
me,  but  that  I  can  never  forget  it.  I,  who  had  full  faith  in  him,  had 
a  right  to  expect  that  he  should  have  full  faith  in  me.  It  was  al- 
ways an  encouragement  to  me  to  think  of  him  as  a  father  and  a 
friend.  I  have  lost  that  encouragement  forever — and  it  was  the  last 
I  had  left  to  me !  NANINA." 

The  priest  rose  from  his  seat  as  he  handed  the  note  back,  and  the 
visitor  immediately  followed  his  example. 

"  We  must  remedy  this  misfortune  as  we  best  may,"  he  said,  with 
a  sigh.  "  Are  you  ready  to  go  back  to  Florence  to-morrow  ?" 

The  little  man  bowed  again.  * 

"  Find  out  where  she  is,  and  ascertain  if  she  wants  for  any  thing, 
and  if  she  is  living  in  a  safe  place.  Say  nothing  about  me,  and 
make  no  attempt  to  induce  her  to  return  to  your  house.  Simply 
let  me  know  what  you  discover.  The  poor  child  has  a  spirit  that 
no  ordinary  people  would  suspect  in  her.  She  must  be  soothed 
and  treated  tenderly,  and  we  shall  manage  her  yet.  No  mistakes, 
mind,  this  time !  Do  just  what  I  tell  you,  and  do  no  more.  Have 
you  any  thing  else  to  say  to  me  ?" 

The  little  man  shook  his  head  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Good-night,  then,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Good-night,"  said  the  little  man,  slipping  through  the  door  that 
was  held  open  for  him  with  the  politest  alacrity. 

"  This  is  vexatious,"  said  Father  Rocco,  taking  a  turn  or  two  in 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  251 

the  study  after  his  visitor  had  gone.  "  It  was  bad  to  have  done  the 
child  an  injustice — it  is  worse  to  have  been  found  out.  There  is 
nothing  for  it  now  but  to  wait  till  I  know  where  she  is.  I  like  her, 
and  I  like  that  note  she  left  behind  her.  It  is  bravely,  delicately, 
and  honestly  written — a  good  girl — a  very  good  girl  indeed !" 

He  walked  to  the  window,  breathed  the  fresh  air  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  quietly  dismissed  the  subject  from  his  mind.  When  he 
returned  to  his  table  he  had  no  thoughts  for  any  one  but  his  sick 
niece. 

"  It  seems  strange,"  he  said, "  that  I  have  had  no  message  about 
her  yet.  Perhaps  Luca  has  heard  something.  It  may  be  well  if  I 
go  to  the  studio  at  once  to  find  out." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door.  Just  as  he  opened  it, 
Fabio's  servant  confronted  him  on  the  threshold. 

"  I  am  sent  to  summon  you  to  the  palace,"  said  the  man.  "  The 
doctors  have  given  up  all  hope." 

Father  Rocco  turned  deadly  pale,  and  drew  back  a  step.  "  Have 
you  told  my  brother  of  this  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  just  on  my  way  to  the  studio,"  answered  the  servant. 

"I  will  go  there  instead  of  you,  and  break  the  bad  news  to  him," 
said  the  priest. 

They  descended  the  stairs  in  silence.  Just  as  they  were  about  to 
separate  at  the  street  door,  Father  Rocco  stopped  the  servant. 

"  How  is  the  child  ?"  he  asked,  with  such  sudden  eagerness  and 
impatience,  that  the  man  looked  quite  startled  as  he  answered  that 
the  child  was  perfectly  well. 

"  There  is  some  consolation  in  that,"  said  Father  Rocco,  walking 
away,  and  speaking  partly  to  the  servant,  partly  to  himself.  "My 
caution  has  misled  me,"  he  continued,  pausing  thoughtfully  when 
he  was  left  alone  in  the  road- way.  "  I  should  have  risked  using  the 
mother's  influence  sooner  to  procure  the  righteous  restitution.  All 
hope  of  compassing  it  now  rests  on  the  life  of  the  child.  Infant  as 
she  is,  her  father's  ill-gotten  wealth  may  yet  be  gathered  back  to  the 
Church  by  her  hands." 

He  proceeded  rapidly  on  his  way  to  the  studio,  until  he  reached 
the  river-side  and  drew  close  to  the  bridge  which  it  was  necessary  to 
cross  in  order  to  get  to  his  brother's  house.  Here  he  stopped  abrupt- 
ly, as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  idea.  The  moon  had  just  risen,  and  her 
light,  streaming  across  the  river,  fell  full  upon  his  face  as  he  stood 
by  the  parapet  wall  that  led  up  to  the  bridge.  He  was  so  lost  in 
thought  that  he  did  not  hear  the  conversation  of  two  ladies  who 
were  advancing  along  the  pathway  close  behind  him.  As  they 
brushed  by  him,  the  taller  of  the  two  turned  round  and  looked 
back  at  his  face. 

"  Father  Rocco '."  exclaimed  the  lady,  stopping. 


252  AITEK  DARK. 

"  Donna  Brigida !"  cried  the  priest,  looking  surprised  at  first,  but 
recovering  himself  directly,  and  bowing  with  his  usual  quiet  polite- 
ness. "  Pardon  me  if  I  thank  you  for  honoring  me  by  renewing  our 
acquaintance,  and  then  pass  on  to  my  brother's  studio.  A  heavy  af- 
fliction is  likely  to  befall  us,  and  I  go  to  prepare  him  for  it." 

"  You  refer  to  the  dangerous  illness  of  your  niece  ?"  said  Brigida. 
"  I  heard  of  it  this  evening.  Let  us  hope  that  your  fears  are  exag- 
gerated, and  that  we  may  yet  meet  under  less  distressing  circum- 
stances. I  have  no  present  intention  of  leaving  Pisa  for  some  time, 
and  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  thank  Father  Rocco  for  the  politeness 
and  consideration  which  he  showed  to  me,  under  delicate  circum- 
stances, a  year  ago." 

With  these  words  she  courtesied  deferentially,  and  moved  away  to 
rejoin  her  friend.  The  priest  observed  that  Mademoiselle  Virginie 
lingered  rather  near,  as  if  anxious  to  catch  a  few  words  of  the  con- 
versation between  Brigida  and  himself.  Seeing  this,  he,  in  his  turn, 
listened  as  the  two  women  slowly  walked  away  together,  and  heard 
the  Italian  say  to  her  companion : 

"Virginie,  I  will  lay  you  the  price  of  a  new  dress  that  Fabio 
d'Ascoli  marries  again." 

Father  Rocco  started  when  she  said  those  words,  as  if  he  had 
'  trodden  on  fire. 

"  My  thought !"  he  whispered  nervously  to  himself.  "  My  thought 
at  the  moment  when  she  spoke  to  me !  Marry  again  ?  Another 
wife,  over  whom  I  should  have  no  influence  !  Other  children,  whose 
education  would  not  be  confided  to  me !  What  would  become, 
then,  of  the  restitution  that  I  have  hoped  for,  wrought  for,  prayed 
for?" 

He  stopped,  and  looked  fixedly  at  the  sky  above  him.  The 
bridge  was  deserted.  His  black  figure  rose  up  erect,  motionless, 
and  spectral,  with  the  white  still  light  falling  solemnly  all  around 
it.  Standing  so  for  some  minutes,  his  first  movement  was  to  drop 
his  hand  angrily  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge.  He  then  turned 
round  slowly  in  the  direction  by  which  the  two  women  had  walked 
away. 

"Donna  Brigida,"  he  said,  "I  will  lay  you  the  price  of  fifty  new 
dresses  that  Fabio  d'Ascoli  never  marries  again !" 

He  set  his  face  once  more  toward  the  studio,  and  walked  on  with- 
out stopping  until  he  arrived  at  the  master-sculptor's  door. 

"Marry  again?"  he  thought  to  himself,  as  he  rang  the  bell. 
"  Donna  Brigida,  was  your  first  failure  not  enough  for  you  ?  Are 
you  going  to  try  a  second  time  ?" 

Luca  Lomi  himself  opened  the  door.  He  drew  Father  Rocco 
hurriedly  into  the  studio,  toward  a  single  lamp  burning  on  a  stand 
near  the  partition  between  the  two  rooms. 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  253 

If  i\v  you  lifiinl  any  tiling  of  our  poor  child  ?"  he  asked.  "Tell 
me  the  truth  !  tell  me  the  truth  at  once!" 

-Hush  !  compose  yourself.  I  have  heard,"  said  Father  Rocco,  in 
low,  mournful  tones. 

Luca  tightened  his  hold  on  the  priest's  arm,  and  looked  into  his 
face  with  breathless,  speechless  eagerness. 

"  Compose  yourself,"  repeated  Father  Rocco.  "  Compose  yourself 
to  hear  the  worst.  My  poor  Luca,  the  doctors  have  given  up  all 
hope." 

Luca  dropped  his  brother's  arm  with  a  groan  of  despair.  "  Oh, 
Maddalena !  my  child — my  only  child !" 

Reiterating  these  words  again  and  again,  he  leaned  his  head 
against  the  partition  and  burst  into  tears.  Sordid  and  coarse  as  his 
nature  was,  he  really  loved  his  daughter.  All  the  heart  he  had  was 
in  his  statues  and  in  her. 

After  the  first  burst  of  his  grief  was  exhausted,  he  was  recalled  to 
himself  by  a  sensation  as  if  some  change  had  taken  place  in  the 
lighting  of  the  studio.  He  looked  up  directly,  and  dimly  dis- 
cerned the  priest  standing  far  down  at  the  end  of  the  room  near- 
est the  door,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  eagerly  looking  at  some- 
thing. 

"  Rocco !"  he  exclaimed,  "  Rocco,  why  have  you  taken  the  lamp 
away  ?  What  are  you  doing  there?" 

There  was  no  movement  and  no  answer.  Luca  advanced  a 
step  or  two,  and  called  again,  "  Rocco,  what  are  you  doing 
there  ?" 

The  priest  heard  this  time,  and  came  suddenly  toward  his  brother, 
with  the  lamp  in  his  hand — so  suddenly  that  Luca  started. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  in  astonishment.  u  Gracious  God,  Rocco, 
how  pale  you  are  !" 

Still  the  priest  never  said  a  word.  He  put  the  lamp  down  on  the 
nearest  table.  Luca  observed  that  his  hand  shook.  He  had  never 
seen  his  brother  violently  agitated  before.  When  Rocco  had  an- 
nounced, but  a  few  minutes  ago,  that  Maddalena's  life  was  despaired 
of,  it  was  in  a  voice  which,  though  sorrowful,  was  perfectly  calm. 
What  was  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  panic — this  strange,  silent 
terror  ?" 

The  priest  observed  that  his  brother  was  looking  at  him  earnest- 
ly. "  Come !"  he  said  in  a  faint  whisper,  "  come  to  her  bedside ;  we 
have  no  time  to  lose.  Get  your  hat,  and  leave  it  to  me  to  put  out 
the  lamp." 

He  hurriedly  extinguished  the  light  while  he  spoke.  They  went 
down  the  studio  side  by  side  toward  the  door.  The  moonlight 
streamed  through  the  window  full  on  the  place  where  the  priest 
had  been  standing  alone  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand.  As  they 


254  AFTER   DARK. 

passed  it,  Luca  felt  his  brother  tremble,  and  saw  him  turn  away  his 
head. 

******* 

Two  hours  later,  Fabio  d'Ascoli  and  his  wife  were  separated  in 
this  world  forever ;  and  the  servants  of  the  palace  were  anticipating 
in  whispers  the  order  of  their  mistress's  funeral  procession  to  the 
burial-ground  of  the  Carnpo  Santo. 


PART  THIRD.— CHAPTER  I. 

ABOUT  eight  months  after  the  Countess  D'Ascoli  had  been  laid  in 
her  grave  in  the  Campo  Santo,  two  reports  were  circulated  through 
the  gay  world  of  Pisa,  which  excited  curiosity  and  awakened  ex- 
pectation everywhere. 

The  first  report  announced  that  a  grand  masked  ball  was  to  be 
given  at  the  Melani  Palace,  to  celebrate  the  day  on  which  the  heir 
of  the  house  attained  his  majority.  All  the  friends  of  the  family 
were  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  this  festival ;  for  the  old  Marquis 
Melani  had  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  most  hospitable,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  one  of  the  most  eccentric  men  in  Pisa.  Every 
one  expected,  therefore,  that  he  would  secure  for  the  entertainment 
of  his  guests,  if  he  really  gave  the  ball,  the  most  whimsical  novel- 
ties in  the  way  of  masks,  dances,  and  amusements  generally,  that 
had  ever  been  seen. 

The  second  report  was,  that  the  rich  widower,  Fabio  d'Ascoli, 
was  on  the  point  of  returning  to  Pisa,  after  having  improved  his 
health  and  spirits  by  traveling  in  foreign  countries;  and  that  he 
might  be  expected  to  appear  again  in  society,  for  the  first  time  since 
the  death  of  his  wife,  at  the  masked  ball  which  was  to  be  given  in 
the  Melani  Palace.  This  announcement  excited  special  interest 
among  the  young  ladies  of  Pisa.  Fabio  had  only  reached  his  thir- 
tieth year ;  and  it  was  universally  agreed  that  his  return  to  society 
in  his  native  city  could  indicate  nothing  more  certainly  than  his 
desire  to  find  a  second  mother  for  his  infant  child.  All  the  single 
ladies  would  now  have  been  ready  to  bet,  as  confidently  as  Brigida 
had  offered  to  bet  eight  months  before,  that  Fabio  d'Ascoli  would 
marry  again. 

For  once  in  a  way,  report  turned  out  to  be  true,  in  both  the  cases 
just  mentioned.  Invitations  were  actually  issued  from  the  Melani 
Palace,  and  Fabio  returned  from  abroad  to  his  home  on  the  Arno. 

In  settling  all  the  arrangements  connected  with  his  masked  ball, 
the  Marquis  Melani  showed  that  he  was  determined  not  only  to  de- 
serve, but  to  increase,  his  reputation  for  oddity.  He  invented  the 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  255 

most  extravagant  disguises,  to  be  worn  by  some  of  his  more  inti- 
mate friends ;  he  arranged  grotesque  dances,  to  be  performed  ft*, 
stated  periods  of  the  evening  by  professional  buffoons,  hired  from 
Florence.  He  composed  a  toy  symphony,  which  included  solos  on 
every  noisy  plaything  at  that  time  manufactured  for  children's  use. 
And,  not  content  with  thus  avoiding  the  beaten  track  in  preparing 
the  entertainments  at  the  ball,  he  determined  also  to  show  decided 
originality,  even  in  selecting  the  attendants  who  were  to  wait  on  the 
company.  Other  people  in  his  rank  of  life  were  accustomed  to  em- 
ploy their  own  and  hired  footmen  for  this  purpose ;  the  marquis  re- 
solved that  his  attendants  should  be  composed  of  young  women 
only ;  that  two  of  his  rooms  should  be  fitted  up  as  Arcadian  bow- 
ers; and  that  all  the  prettiest  girls  in  Pisa  should  be  placed  in 
them  to  preside  over  the  refreshments,  dressed,  in  accordance  with 
the  mock  classical  taste  of  the  period,  as  shepherdesses  of  the  time 
of  Virgil. 

The  only  defect  of  this  brilliantly  new  idea  was  the  difficulty  of 
executing  it.  The  marquis  had  expressly  ordered  that  not  fewer 
than  thirty  shepherdesses  were  to  be  engaged — fifteen  for  each  bow- 
er. It  would  have  been  easy  to  find  double  this  number  in  Pisa,  if 
beauty  had  been  the  only  quality  required  in  the  attendant  damsels. 
But  it  was  also  absolutely  necessary,  for  the  security  of  the  marquis's 
gold  and  silver  plate,  that  the  shepherdesses  should  possess,  besides 
good  looks,  the  very  homely  recommendation  of  a  fair  character. 
This  last  qualification  proved,  it  is  sad  to  say,  to  be  the  one  small 
merit  which  the  majority  of  the  ladies  willing  to  accept  engage- 
ments at  the  palace  did  not  possess.  Day  after  day  passed  on ;  and 
the  marquis's  steward  only  found  more  and  more  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining the  appointed  number  of  trustworthy  beauties.  At  last  his 
resources  failed  him  altogether;  and  he  appeared  in  his  master's 
presence  about  a  week  before  the  night  of  the  ball,  to  make  the 
humiliating  acknowledgment  that  he  was  entirely  at  his  wits'  end. 
The  total  number  of  fair  shepherdesses  with  fair  characters  whom 
he  had  been  able  to  engage  amounted  only  to  twenty-three. 

"  Nonsense !"  cried  the  marquis,  irritably,  as  soon  as  the  steward 
had  made  his  confession.  "  I  told  you  to  get  thirty  girls,  and  thirty 
I  mean  to  have.  What's  the  use  of  shaking  your  head,  when  all 
their  dresses  are  ordered?  Thirty  tunics,  thirty  wreaths,  thirty 
pairs  of  sandals  and  silk  stockings,  thirty  crooks,  you  scoundrel — 
and  you  have  the  impudence  to  offer  me  only  twenty-three  hands  to 
hold  them.  Not  a  word  !  I  won't  hear  a  word  !  Get  me  my  thirty 
irirls,  or  lose  your  place."  The  marquis  roared  out  this  last  terrible 
sentence  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  pointed  peremptorily  to  the  ^oor. 

The  steward  knew  his  master  too  well  to  remonstrate.  He  took 
his  hat  and  cane,  and  went  out.  It  was  useless  to  look  through  the 


256  AFTER   DAKK. 

ranks  of  rejected  volunteers  again ;  there  was  not  the  slightest  hope 
in  that  quarter.  The  only  chance  left  was  to  call  on  all  his  friends 
in  Pisa  who  had  daughters  out  at  service,  and  to  try  what  he  could 
accomplish,  by  bribery  and  persuasion,  that  way. 

After  a  whole  day  occupied  in  solicitations,  promises,  and  patient 
smoothing  down  of  innumerable  difficulties,  the  result  of  his  efforts 
in  the  new  direction  was  an  accession  of  six  more  shepherdesses. 
This  brought  him  on  bravely  from  twenty-three  to  twenty-nine,  and 
left  him  at  last  with  only  one  anxiety — where  was  he  now  to  find 
shepherdess  number  thirty  ? 

He  mentally  asked  himself  that  important  question,  as  he  entered 
a  shady  by-street  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Campo  Santo,  on  his 
way  back  to  the  Melani  Palace.  Sauntering  slowly  along  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  fanning  himself  with  his  handkerchief  after 
the  oppressive  exertions  of  the  day,  he  passed  a  young  girl  who  was 
standing  at  the  street  door  of  one  of  the  houses,  apparently  waiting 
for  somebody  to  join  her  before  she  entered  the  building. 

"  Body  of  Bacchus !"  exclaimed  the  steward  (using  one  of  those 
old  Pagan  ejaculations  which  survive  in  Italy  even  to  the  present 
day),  "there  stands  the  prettiest  girl  I  have  seen  yet.  If  she  would 
only  be  shepherdess  number  thirty,  I  should  go  home  to  supper 
with  my  mind  at  ease.  I'll  ask  her,  at  any  rate.  Nothing  can  be 
lost  by  asking,  and  every  thing  may  be  gained.  Stop,  my  dear,"  he 
continued,  seeing  the  girl  turn  to  go  into  the  house  as  he  approach- 
ed her.  "  Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  I  am  steward  to  the  Marquis 
Melani,  and  well  known  in  Pisa  as  an  eminently  respectable  man. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you  which  may  be  greatly  for  your  bene- 
fit. Don't  look  surprised ;  I  am  coming  to  the  point  at  once.  Do 
you  want  to  earn  a  little  money  ?  honestly,  of  course.  You  don't 
look  as  if  you  were  very  rich,  child." 

"  I  am  very  poor,  and  very  much  in  want  of  some  honest  work  to 
do,"  answered  the  girl,  sadly. 

"Then  we  shall  suit  each  other  to  a  nicety;  for  I  have  work  of 
the  pleasantest  kind  to  give  you,  and  plenty  of  money  to  pay  for  it. 
But  before  we  say  any  thing  more  about  that,  suppose  you  tell  me 
first  something  about  yourself — who  you  are,  and  so  forth.  You 
know  who  I  am  already." 

"I  am  only  a  poor  work-girl,  and  my  name  is  Nanina.  I  have 
nothing  more,  sir,  to  say  about  myself  than  that." 

"  Do  you  belong  to  Pisa  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir — at  least,  I  did.  But  I  have  been  away  for  some  time. 
I  was  a  year  at  Florence,  employed  in  needle-work." 

"All  by  yourself?" 

"  No,  sir,  with  my  little  sister.  I  was  waiting  for  her  when  you 
came  up." 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  257 

"  Have  you  never  done  any  thing  else  but  needle- work  ?  never 
been  out  at  service  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  For  the  last  eight  months  I  have  had  a  situation  to 
wait  on  a  lady  at  Florence,  and  my  sister  (who  is  turned  eleven, 
sir,  and  can  make  herself  very  useful)  was  allowed  to  help  in  the 
nursery." 

"  How  came  you  to  leave  this  situation  ?" 

u  The  lady  and  her  family  were  going  to  Rome,  sir.  They  would 
have  taken  me  with  them,  but  they  could  not  take  my  sister.  We 
are  alone  in  the  world,  and  we  never  have  been  parted  from  each 
other,  and  never  shall  be — so  I  was  obliged  to  leave  the  situation." 

"  And  here  you  are,  back  at  Pisa — with  nothing  to  do,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Nothing  yet,  sir.     We  only  came  back  yesterday." 

"  Only  yesterday  1  You  are  a  lucky  girl,  let  me  tell  you,  to  have 
met  with  me.  I  suppose  you  have  somebody  in  the  town  who  can 
speak  to  your  character  ?"  - 

"  The  landlady  of  this  house  can,  sir." 

"  And  who  is  she,  pray  ?" 

"  Marta  Angrisani,  sir." 

"  What !  the  well  -  known  sick  -  nurse  ?  You  could  not  possibly 
have  a  better  recommendation,  child.  I  remember  her  being  em- 
ployed at  the  Melani  Palace  at  the  time  of  the  marquis's  last  attack 
of  gout ;  but  I  never  knew  that  she  kept  a  lodging-house." 

"  She  and  her  daughter,  sir,  have  owned  this  house  longer  than  I 
can  recollect.  My  sister  and  I  have  lived  in  it  since  I  was  quite  a 
little  child,  and  I  had  hoped  we  might  be  able  to  live  here  again. 
But  the  top  room  we  used  to  have  is  taken,  and  the  room  to  let 
lower  down  is  far  more,  I  am  afraid,  than  we  can  afford." 

"  How  much  is  it  ?" 

Nanina  mentioned  the  weekly  rent  of  the  room  in  fear  and  trem- 
bling. The  steward  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Suppose  I  offered  you  money  enough  to  be  able  to  take  that 
room  for  a  whole  year  at  once  ?"  he  said. 

Nanina  looked  at  him  in  speechless  amazement. 

"  Suppose  I  offered  you  that  ?''  continued  the  steward.  "  And 
suppose  I  only  ask  you  in  return  to  put  on  a  fine  dress  and  serve  re- 
freshments in  a  beautiful  room  to  the  company  at  the  Marquis  Me- 
lani's  grand  ball  ?  What  should  you  say  to  that  ?" 

Nanina  said  nothing.  She  drew  back  a  step  or  two,  and  looked 
more  bewildered  than  before. 

u  You  must  have  heard  of  the  ball,"  said  the  steward,  pompously ; 
"  the  poorest  people  in  Pisa  have  heard  of  it.  It  is  the  talk  of  the 
whole  city." 

Still  Nanina  made  no  answer.  To  have  replied  truthfully,  she 
must  have  confessed  that "  the  talk  of  the  whole  city  "  had  now  no 

U 


258  AfrTER  DARK. 

interest  for  her.  The  last  news  from  Pisa  that  had  appealed  to  her 
sympathies  was  the  news  of  the  Countess  D'Ascoli's  death,  and  of 
Fabio's  departure  to  travel  in  foreign  countries.  Since  then  she 
had  heard  nothing  more  of  him.  She  was  as  ignorant  of  his  return 
to  his  native  city  as  of  all  the  reports  connected  with  the  marquis's 
ball.  Something  in  her  own  heart  —  some  feeling  which  she  had 
neither  the  desire  nor  the  capacity  to  analyze  —  had  brought  her 
back  to  Pisa  and  to  the  old  home  which  now  connected  itself  with 
her  tenderest  recollections.  Believing  that  Fabio  was  still  absent, 
she  felt  that  no  ill  motive  could  now  be  attributed  to  her  return; 
and  she  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  temptation  of  revisiting  the 
scene  that  had  been  associated  with  the  first  great  happiness  as 
well  as  with  the  first  great  sorrow  of  her  life.  Among  all  the  poor 
people  of  Pisa,  she  was  perhaps  the  very  last  whose  curiosity  could 
be  awakened,  or  whose  attention  could  be  attracted  by  the  rumor 
of  gayeties  at  the  Melani  Palace. 

But  she  could  not  confess  all  this ;  she  could  only  listen  with 
great  humility  and  no  small  surprise,  while  the  steward,  in  compas- 
sion for  her  ignorance,  and  with  the  hope  of  tempting  her  into  ac- 
cepting his  offered  engagement,  described  the  arrangements  of  the 
approaching  festival,  and  dwelt  fondly  on  the  magnificence  of  the 
Arcadian  bowers,  and  the  beauty  of  the  shepherdesses'  tunics.  As 
soon  as  he  had  done,  Nanina  ventured  on  the  confession  that  she 
should  feel  rather  nervous  in  a  grand  dress  that  did  not  belong  to 
her,  and  that  she  doubted  very  much  her  own  capability  of  waiting 
properly  on  the  great  people  at  the  ball.  The  steward,  however, 
would  hear  of  no  objections,  and  called  peremptorily  for  Marta 
Angrisani  to  make  the  necessary  statement  as  to  Nanina's  character. 
While  this  formality  was  being  complied  with  to  the  steward's  per- 
fect satisfaction,  La  Biondella  came  in,  unaccompanied  on  this  oc- 
casion by  the  usual  companion  of  all  her  walks,  the  learned  poodle 
Scarammuccia. 

"  This  is  Naniua's  sister,"  said  the  good-natured  sick -nurse,  taking 
the  first  opportunity  of  introducing  La  Biondella  to  the  great  mar- 
quis's great  man.  "A  very  good,  industrious  little  girl;  and  very 
clever  at  plaiting  dinner-mats,  in  case  his  excellency  should  ever 
want  any.  What  have  you  done  with  the  dog,  my  dear?" 

"  I  couldn't  get  him  past  the  pork  butcher's,  three  streets  off,"  re- 
plied La  Biondella.  "  He  would  sit  down  and  look  at  the  sausages. 
I  am  more  than  half  afraid  he  means  to  steal  some  of  them." 

"A  very  pretty  child,"  said  the  steward,  patting  La  Biondella  on 
the  cheek.  "  We  ought  to  have  her  at  the  ball.  If  his  excellency 
should  want  a  Cupid,  or  a  youthful  nymph,  or  any  thing  small  and 
light  in  that  way,  I  shall  come  back  and  let  you  know.  In  the 
mean  time,  Nanina,  consider  yourself  Shepherdess  Number  Thirty, 


THE   YELLOW  IIASK.  259 

and  come  to  the  housekeeper's  room  at  the  palace  to  try  on  your 
i In---  to-morrow.  Nonsense!  don't  talk  to  me  about  being  afraid 
and  awkward.  All  you're  wanted  to  do  is  to  look  pretty ;  and  your 
glass  must  have  told  you  you  could  do  that  long  ago.  Remember 
the  rent  of  the  room,  my  dear,  and  don't  stand  in  your  light  and 
your  sister's.  Does  the  little  girl  like  sweetmeats  ?  Of  course  she 
does !  Well,  I  promise  you  a  whole  box  of  sugar  -  plums  to  take 
home  for  her,  if  you  will  come  and  wait  at  the  ball." 

"Oh,  go  to  the  ball,  Nanina;  go  to  the  ball !"  cried  La  Biondella, 
clapping  her  hands. 

"Of  course  she  will  go  to  the  ball,"  said  the  nurse.  "  She  would 
be  mad  to  throw  away  such  an  excellent  chance." 

Nanina  looked  perplexed.  She  hesitated  a  little,  then  drew  Mar- 
ta  Angrisani  away  into  a  corner,  and  whispered  this  question  to  her: 

"  Do  you  think  there  will  be  any  priests  at  the  palace  where  the 
marquis  lives  ?" 

"  Heavens,  child,  what  a  thing  to  ask !"  returned  the  nurse. 
"  Priests  at  a  masked  ball !  You  might  as  well  expect  to  find  Turks 
performing  high  mass  in  the  cathedral.  But  supposing  you  did 
meet  with  priests  at  the  palace,  what  then?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Nanina,  constrainedly.  She  turned  pale,  and 
walked  away  as  she  spoke.  Her  great  dread,  in  returning  to  Pisa, 
\\as  the  dread  of  meeting  with  Father  Rocco  again.  She  had  never 
forgotten  her  first  discovery  at  Florence  of  his  distrust  of  her.  The 
bare  thought  of  seeing  him  any  more,  after  her  faith  in  him  had 
lieen  shaken  forever,  made  her  feel  faint  and  sick  at  heart. 

••  To-morrow,  in  the  housekeeper's  room,"  said  the  steward,  put- 
ting on  his  hat,  "you  will  find  your  new  dress  all  ready  for  you." 

Nanina  courtesied,  and  ventured  on  no  more  objections.  The 
prospect  of  securing  a  home  for  a  whole  year  to  come  among  peo- 
ple whom  she  knew,  reconciled  her — influenced  as  she  was  also  by 
Mart  a  Angrisani's  advice,  and  by  her  sister's  anxiety  for  the  prom- 
i-cil  present — to  brave  the  trial  of  appearing  at  the  ball. 

••  What  a  comfort  to  have  it  all  settled  at  last," said  the  steward, 
as  soon  as  he  was  out  again  in  the  street.  "We  shall  see  what  the 
marquis  says  now.  If  he  doesn't  apologize  for  calling  me  a  scoun- 
drel the  moment  he  sets  eyes  on  Number  Thirty,  he  is  the  most  un- 
grateful nobleman  that  ever  existed." 

Arriving  in  front  of  the  palace,  the  steward  found  workmen  en- 
gaged  in  planning  the  external  decorations  and  illuminations  for  the 
night  of  the  ball.  A  little  crowd  had  already  assembled  to  see  the 
ladders  raised  and  the  scaffoldings  put  up.  He  observed  among 
them,  standing  near  the  outskirts  of  the  throng,  a  lady  who  attract- 
ed his  attention  (he  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  the  fair  sex)  by  the 
beauty  and  symmetry  of  her  figure.  While  he  lingered  for  a  uio- 


260  AFTER  DARK. 

ment  to  look  at  her,  a  shaggy  poodle-dog  (licking  his  chops,  as  if 
he  had  just  had  something  to  eat)  trotted  by,  stopped  suddenly 
close  to  the  lady,  sniffed  suspiciously  for  an  instant,  and  then  began 
to  growl  at  her  without  the  slightest  apparent  provocation.  The 
steward  advancing  politely  with  his  stick  to  drive  the  dog  away, 
saw  the  lady  start,  and  heard  her  exclaim  to  herself  amazedly, 

"  You  here,  you  beast !     Can  Nanina  have  come  back  to  Pisa  ?" 

This  last  exclamation  gave  the  steward,  as  a  gallant  man,  an  ex- 
cuse for  speaking  to  the  elegant  stranger. 

"  Excuse  me,  madam,"  he  said,  "  but  I  heard  you  mention  the 
name  of  Nanina.  May  I  ask  whether  you  mean  a  pretty  little  work- 
girl  who  lives  near  the  Campo  Santo  ?" 

"  The  same,"  said  the  lady,  looking  very  much  surprised  and  in- 
terested immediately. 

"  It  may  be  a  gratification  to  you,  madam,  to  know  that  she  has 
just  returned  to  Pisa,"  continued  the  steward,  politely ;  "  and,  more- 
over, that  she  is  in  a  fair  way  to  rise  in  the  world.  I  have  just  en- 
gaged her  to  wait  at  the  marquis's  grand  ball,  and  I  need  hardly  say, 
under  those  circumstances,  that  if  she  plays  her  cards  properly  her 
fortune  is  made." 

The  lady  bowed,  looked  at  her  informant  very  intently  and 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  walked  away  without 
uttering  a  word. 

"A  curious  woman,"  thought  the  steward,  entering  the  palace. 
"  I  must  ask  Number  Thirty  about  her  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  II. 

\ 

THE  death  of  Maddalena  d'Ascoli  produced  a  complete  change 
in  the  lives  of  her  father  and  her  uncle.  After  the  first  shock  of  the 
bereavement  was  over,  Luca  Loini  declared  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  him  to  work  in  his  studio  again — for  some  time  to  come  at 
least  —  after  the  death  of  the  beloved  daughter,  with  whom  every 
corner  of  it  was  now  so  sadly  and  closely  associated.  He  accord- 
ingly accepted  an  engagement  to  assist  in  restoring  several  newly 
discovered  works  of  ancient  sculpture  at  Naples,  and  set  forth  for 
that  city,  leaving  the  care  of  his  work-rooms  at  Pisa  entirely  to  his 
brother. 

On  the  master  -  sculptor's  departure,  Father  Rocco  caused  the 
statues  and  busts  to  be  carefully  enveloped  in  linen  cloths,  locked 
the  studio  doors,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  who  knew  of  his 
former  industry  and  dexterity  as  a  sculptor,  never  approached  the 
place  again.  His  clerical  duties  he  performed  with  the  same  a*- 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  261 

siduity  as  ever;  hut  he  went  out  less  than  had  been  his  custom 
hitherto  to  the  houses  of  his  friends.  His  most  regular  visits  were 
to  the  Aseoli  Palace,  to  inquire  at  the  porter's  lodge  after  the  health 
of  Maddalcna's  child,  who  was  always  reported  to  be  thriving  ad- 
mirably under  the  care  of  the  best  nurses  that  could  be  found  in 
Pisa.  As  for  any  communications  with  his  polite  little  friend  from 
Florence,  they  had  ceased  months  ago.  The  information — speedily 
conveyed  to  him — that  Nanina  was  in  the  service  of  one  of  the  most 
respectable  ladies  in  the  city  seemed  to  relieve  any  anxieties  which 
he  might  otherwise  have  felt  on  her  account.  He  made  no  attempt 
to  justify  himself  to  her;  and  only  required  that  his  overcourteous 
little  visitor  of  former  days  should  let  him  know  whenever  the  girl 
might  happen  to  leave  her  new  situation. 

The  admirers  of  Father  Rocco,  seeing  the  alteration  in  his  life,  and 
the  increased  quietness  of  his  manner,  said  that,  as  he  was  growing 
older,  he  was  getting  morn  and  more  above  the  things  of  this  world. 
His  enemies  (tor  even  Father  Rocco  had  them)  did  not  scruple  to 
assert  that  the  change  in  him  was  decidedly  for  the  worse,  and  that 
he  belonged  to  the  order  of  men  who  are  most  to  be  distrusted  when 
they  become  most  subdued.  The  priest  himself  paid  no  attention 
either  to  his  eulogists  or  his  depreciators.  Nothing  disturbed  the 
regularity  and  discipline  of  his  daily  habits ;  and  vigilant  Scandal, 
though  she  sought  often  to  surprise  him, sought  always  in  vain. 

Such  was  Father  Rocco's  life  from  the  period  of  his  niece's  death 
to  Fabio's  return  to  Pisa. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  priest  was  one  of  the  first  to  call  at  the 
palace  and  welcome  the  young  nobleman  back.  What  passed  be- 
tween them  at  this  interview  never  was  precisely  known;  but  it 
was  surmised  readily  enough  that  some  misunderstanding  had  taken 
place,  for  Father  Rocco  did  not  repeat  his  visit.  He  made  no  com- 
plaints of  Fabio,  but  simply  stated  that  he  had  said  something,  in- 
tended for  the  young  man's  good,  which  had  not  been  received  in  a 
right  spirit ;  and  that  he  thought  it  desirable  to  avoid  the  painful 
chance  of  any  further  collision  by  not  presenting  himself  at  the  pal- 
ace again  for  some  little  time.  People  were  rather  amazed  at  this. 
They  would  have  been  still  more  surprised  if  the  subject  of  the 
masked  ball  had  not  just  then  occupied  all  their  attention,  and  pre- 
vented their  noticing  it,  by  another  strange  event  in  connection  with 
the  priest.  Father  Rocco,  some  weeks  after  the  cessation  of  his  in- 
tercourse with  Fabio,  returned  one  morning  to  his  old  way  of  life  as 
a  sculptor,  and  o|x>ned  the  long-closed  doors  of  his  brother's  studio. 

Luca  Lomi's  former  workmen,  discovering  this,  applied  to  him 
immediately  for  employment;  but  wen;  informed  that  their  services 
would  not  be  needed.  Visitors  called  at  the  studio,  but  were  al- 
ways sent  away  again  by  the  disappointing  announcement  that 


262  AFTER    DARK. 

there  was  nothing  new  to  show  them.  So  the  days  passed  on  until 
Nanina  left  her  situation  and  returned  to  Pisa.  This  circumstance 
was  duly  reported  to  Father  Rocco  by  his  correspondent  at  Flor- 
ence ;  but,  whether  he  was  too  much  occupied  among  the  statues, 
or  whether  it  was  one  result  of  his  cautious  resolution  never  to  ex- 
pose himself  unnecessarily  to  so  much  as  the  breath  of  detraction, 
he  made  no  attempt  to  see  Nanina,  or  even  to  justify  himself  toward 
her  by  writing  her  a  letter.  All  his  mornings  continued  to  be  spent 
alone  in  the  studio,  and  all  his  afternoons  to  be  occupied  by  his 
clerical  duties,  until  the  day  before  the  masked  ball  at  the  Melani 
Palace. 

Early  on  that  day  he  covered  over  the  statues,  and  locked  the 
doors  of  the  work-rooms  once  more  ;  then  returned  to  his  own  lodg- 
ings, and  did  not  go  out  again.  One  or  two  of  his  friends  who 
wanted  to  see  him  were  informed  that  he  was  not  well  enough  to 
be  able  to  receive  them.  If  they  had  penetrated  into  his  little  study, 
and  had  seen  him,  they  would  have  been  easily  satisfied  that  this 
was  no  mere  excuse.  They  would  have  noticed  that  his  face  was 
startlingly  pale,  and  that  the  ordinary  composure  of  his  manner  was 
singularly  disturbed. 

Toward  evening  this  restlessness  increased,  and  his  old  house- 
keeper, on  pressing  him  to  take  some  nourishment,  was  astonished 
to  hear  him  answer  her  sharply  and  irritably,  for  the  first  time  since 
she  had  been  in  his  service.  A  little  later  her  surprise  was  in- 
creased by  his  sending  her  with  a  note  to  the  Ascoli  Palace,  and  by 
the  quick  return  of  an  answer,  brought  ceremoniously  by  one  of 
Fabio's  servants.  "  It  is  long  since  he  has  had  any  communication 
with  that  quarter.  Are  they  going  to  be  friends  again  ?"  thought 
the  housekeeper  as  she  took  the  answer  up  stairs  to  her  master. 

"  I  feel  better  to-night,"  he  said  as  he  read  it ;  "  well  enough  in- 
deed to  venture  out.  If  any  one  inquires  for  me,  tell  them  that  I 
am  gone  to  the  Ascoli  Palace."  Saying  this,  he  walked  to  the 
door ;  then  returned,  and  trying  the  lock  of  his  cabinet,  satisfied 
himself  that  it  was  properly  secured  ;  then  went  out. 

He  found  Fabio  in  one  of  the  large  drawing-rooms  of  the  palace, 
walking  irritably  backward  and  forward,  with  several  little  notes 
crumpled  together  in  his  hands,  and  a  plain  black  domino  dress  for 
the  masquerade  of  the  ensuing  night  spread  out  on  one  of  the 
tables. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  write  to  you,"  said  the  young  man,  abruptly, 
"  when  I  received  your  letter.  You  offer  me  a  renewal  of  our  friend- 
ship, and  I  accept  the  offer.  I  have  no  doubt  those  references  of 
yours,  when  we  last  met,  to  the  subject  of  second  marriages  were 
well  meant,  but  they  irritated  me ;  and,  speaking  under  that  irrita- 
tion, I  said  words  that  I  had  better  not  have  spoken.  If  I  pained 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  263 

you,  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Wait !  pardon  me  for  one  moment.  I  have 
n<>t  quite  done  yet.  It  seems  that  you  are  by  no  means  the  only 
in  Pisa  to  whom  the  question  of  my  possibly  marrying  again 
to  have  presented  itself.  Ever  since  it  was  known  that  I 
intended  to  renew  my  intercourse  with  society  at  the  ball  to-morrow 
night,  I  have  been  persecuted  by  anonymous  letters — infamous  let- 
ters, written  from  some  motive  which  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  un- 
derstand. I  want  your  advice  on  the  best  means  of  discovering  the 
writers ;  and  I  have  also  a  very  important  question  to  ask  you.  But 
read  one  of  the  letters  first  yourself;  any  one  will  do  as  a  sample  of 
the  rest." 

Fixing  his  eyes  searchingly  on  the  priest,  he  handed  him  one  of 
the  notes.  Still  a  little  paler  than  usual,  Father  Rocco  sat  down  by 
the  nearest  lamp,  and,  shading  his  eyes,  read  these  lines : 

"  COUNT  FABIO, — It  is  the  common  talk  of  Pisa  that  you  are  like- 
ly, as  a  young  man  left  with  a  motherless  child,  to  marry  again. 
Your  having  accepted  an  invitation  to  the  Melani  Palace  gives  a 
color  of  truth  to  this  report.  Widowers  who  are  true  to  the  depart- 
ed do  not  go  among  all  the  handsomest  single  women  in  a  city  at  a 
masked  ball.  Reconsider  your  determination,  and  remain  at  home. 
I  know  you,  and  I  knew  your  wife,  and  I  say  to  you  solemnly,  avoid 
temptation,  for  you  must  never  marry  again.  Neglect  my  advice 
and  you  will  repent  it  to  the  end  of  your  life.  I  have  reasons  for 
what  I  say — serious,  fatal  reasons,  which  I  can  not  divulge.  If  you 
would  let  your  wife  lie  easy  in  her  grave,  if  you  would  avoid  a  ter- 
rible warning,  go  not  to  the  masked  ball !" 

"  I  ask  you,  and  I  ask  any  man,  if  that  is  not  infamous  ?"  exclaim- 
ed Fabio,  passionately,  as  the  priest  handed  him  back  the  letter. 
"An  attempt  to  work  on  my  fears  through  the  memory  of  my  poor 
dead  wife !  An  insolent  assumption  that  I  want  to  marry  again, 
when  I  myself  have  not  even  so  much  as  thought  of  the  subject  at 
all !  What  is  the  secret  object  of  this  letter,  and  of  the  rest  here 
that  resemble  it  ?  Whose  interest  is  it  to  keep  me  away  from  the 
ball  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  such  a  phrase  as, '  If  you  would  let 
your  wife  lie  easy  in  her  grave  ?'  Have  you  no  advice  to  give  me — 
no  plan  to  propose  for  discovering  the  vile  hand  that  traced  these 
lines  ?  Speak  to  me !  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  don't  you  speak  ?" 

The  priest  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and,  turning  his  face  from 
the  light  as  if  it  dazzled  his  eyes,  replied  in  his  lowest  and  quietest 
tones : 

"  I  can  not  speak  till  I  have  had  time  to  think.  The  mystery  of 
that  letter  is  not  to  be  solved  in  a  moment.  There  are  things  in  it 
that  are  enough  to  perplex  and  amaze  any  man !" 


264  AFTER   DARK. 

"What  things?" 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  into  details — at  least  at  the  present 
moment." 

"  You  speak  with  a  strange  air  of  secrecy.  Have  you  nothing 
definite  to  say — no  advice  to  give  me  ?" 

"I  should  advise  you  not  to  go  to  the  ball." 
•  "  You  would  !    Why  ?" 

"  If  I  gave  you  my  reasons,  I  am  afraid  I  should  only  be  irritating 
you  to  no  purpose." 

"  Father  Rocco,  neither  your  words  nor  your  manner  satisfy  me. 
You  speak  in  riddles ;  and  you  sit  there  in  the  dark  with  your  face 
hidden  from  me — 

The  priest  instantly  started  up  and  turned  his  face  to  the  light. 

"  I  recommend  you  to  control  your  temper,  and  to  treat  me  with 
common  courtesy,"  he  said,  in  his  quietest,  firmest  tones,  looking  at 
Fabio  steadily  while  he  spoke. 

"  We  will  not  prolong  this  interview,"  said  the  young  man,  calm- 
ing himself  by  an  evident  eflfort.  "  I  have  one  question  to  ask  you, 
and  then  no  more  to  say." 

The  priest  bowed  his  head,  in  token  that  he  was  ready  to  listen. 
He  still  stood  up,  calm,  pale,  and  firm,  in  the  full  light  of  the  lamp. 

"  It  is  just  possible,"  continued  Fabio,  "  that  these  letters  may  re- 
fer to  some  incautious  words  which  my  late  wife  might  have  spoken. 
I  ask  you  as  her  spiritual  director,  and  as  a  near  relation  who  enjoy- 
ed her  confidence,  if  you  ever  heard  her  express  a  wish,  in  the  event 
of  my  surviving  her,  that  I  should  abstain  from  marrying  again  ?" 

"  Did  she  never  express  such  a  wish  to  you  ?" 

"Never.  But  why  do  you  evade  my  question  by  asking  me  an- 
other?" 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  reply  to  your  question." 

"  For  what  reason  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  give  answers  which  must  re- 
^•r,  whether  they  are  affirmative  or  negative,  to  what  I  have  heard 
in  confession." 

"  We  have  spoken  enough,"  said  Fabio,  turning  angrily  from  the 
priest.  "  I  expected  you  to  help  me  in  clearing  up  these  mysteries, 
and  you  do  your  best  to  thicken  them.  What  your  motives  are, 
what  your  conduct  means,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  know;  but  I 
say  to  you,  what  I  would  say  in  far  other  terms,  if  they  were  here,  to 
the  villains  who  have  written  these  letters — no  menaces,  no  myste- 
ries, no  conspiracies,  will  prevent  me  from  being  at  the  ball  to-mor- 
row. I  can  listen  to  persuasion,  but  I  scorn  threats.  There  lies  my 
dress  for  the  masquerade ;  no  power  on  earth  shall  prevent  me  from 
wearing  it  to-morrow  night !"  He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  the  black 
domino  and  half-mask  lying  on  the  table. 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  265 

"No  power  on  firth!"  repeated  Father  Rocco,  with  a  smile,  and 
an  emphasis  on  the  last  word.  "  Superstitious  still,  Count  Fabio ! 
Do  you  suspect  the  powers  of  the  other  world  of  interfering  with 
mortals  at  masquerades  '." 

Fal>io  started,  and,  turning  from  the  table,  fixed  his  eyes  intently 
on  the  priest's  face. 

"  You  suggested  just  now  that  we  had  better  not  prolong  this 
interview,"  said  Father  Rocco,  still  smiling.  "  I  think  you  were 
right :  if  we  part  at  once,  we  may  still  part  friends.  You  have  had 
mj  advice  not  to  go  to  the  ball,  and  you  decline  following  it.  I 
have  nothing  more  to  say.  Good-night." 

Before  Fabio  could  utter  the  angry  rejoinder  that  rose  to  his  lips, 
the  door  of  the  room  had  opened  and  closed  again,  and  the  priest 
was  gone. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  next  night,  at  the  time  of  assembling  specified  in  the  invita- 
tions to  the  masked  ball,  Fabio  was  still  lingering  in  his  palace,  and 
still  allowing  the  black  domino  to  lie  untouched  and  unheeded  on 
his  dressing-table.  This  delay  was  not  produced  by  any  change  in 
his  resolution  to  go  to  the  Melani  Palace.  His  determination  to  be 
present  at  the  ball  remained  unshaken ;  and  yet,  at  the  last  moment, 
he  lingered  ;iiitl  lingered  on,  without  knowing  why.  Some  strange 
influence  seemed  to  be  keeping  him  within  the  walls  of  his  lonely 
home.  It  was  as  if  the  great,  empty,  silent  palace  had  almost  re- 
covered on  that  night  the  charm  which  it  had  lost  when  its  mistress 
died. 

He  left  his  own  apartment  and  went  to  the  bedroom  where  his 
infant  child  lay  asleep  in  her  little  crib.  He  sat  watching  her,  and 
thinking  quietly  and  tenderly  of  many  past  events  in  his  life  for  a 
long  time,  then  returned  to  his  room.  A  sudden  sense  of  loneliness 
came  upon  him  after  his  visit  to  the  child's  bedside ;  but  he  did  not 
attempt  to  raise  his  spirits  even  then  by  going  to  the  ball.  He  de- 
scended instead  to  his  study,  lit  his  reading-lamp,  and  then  opening 
a  bureau,  took  from  one  of  the  drawers  in  it  the  letter  which  Nanina 
hail  written  to  him.  This  was  not  the  first  time  that  a  sudden  sense 
of  his  solitude  had  connected  itself  inexplicably  with  the  remem- 
brance of  the  work-girl's  letter. 

He  read  it  through  slowly,  and  when  he  had  done,  kept  it  open 
in  his  hand.  "  I  have  youth,  titles,  wealth,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
sadly  ;  "  every  thing  that  is  sought  after  in  this  world.  And  yet  if 
I  try  to  think  of  any  human  being  who  really  and  truly  loves  me, 
I  can  remember  but  one — the  poor,  faithful  girl  who  wrote  these 
lines !" 

11* 


266  AFTER  DARK. 

Old  recollections  of  the  first  day  when  he  met  with  Nanina,  of  the 
first  sitting  she  had  given  him  in  Luca  Lomi's  studio,  of  the  first 
visit  to  the  neat  little  room  in  the  by-street,  began  to  rise  more  and 
more  vividly  in  his  mind.  Entirely  absorbed  by  them,  he  sat  ab- 
sently drawing  with  pen  and  ink,  on  some  sheets  of  letter-paper 
lying  under  his  hand,  lines  and  circles,  and  fragments  of  decora- 
tions, and  vague  remembrances  of  old  ideas  for  statues,  until  the 
sudden  sinking  of  the  flame  of  his  lamp  awoke  his  attention  abrupt- 
ly to  present  things. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.     It  was  close  on  midnight. 

This  discovery  at  last  aroused  him  to  the  necessity  of  immediate 
departure.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  put  on  his  domino  and  mask, 
and  was  on  his  way  to  the  ball. 

Before  he  reached  the  Melani  Palace  the  first  part  of  the  entertain- 
ment had  come  to  an  end.  The  "  Toy  Symphony  "  had  been  play- 
ed, the  grotesque  dance  performed,  amidst  universal  laughter ;  and 
now  the  guests  were,  for  the  most  part,  fortifying  themselves  in  the 
Arcadian  bowers  for  new  dances,  in  which  all  persons  present  were 
expected  to  take  part.  The  Marquis  Melani  had,  with  characteris- 
tic oddity,  divided  his  two  classical  refreshment-rooms  into  what  he 
termed  the  Light  and  Heavy  Departments.  Fruit,  pastry,  sweet- 
meats, salads,  and  harmless  drinks  were  included  under  the  first 
head,  and  all  the  stimulating  liquors  and  solid  eatables  under  the 
last.  The  thirty  shepherdesses  had  been,  according  to  the  marquis's 
order,  equally  divided  at  the  outset  of  the  evening  between  the  two 
rooms.  But  as  the  company  began  to  crowd  more  and  more  reso- 
lutely in  the  direction  of  the  Heavy  Department,  ten  of  the  shep- 
herdesses attached  to  the  Light  Department  were  told  off  to  assist  in 
attending  on  the  hungry  and  thirsty  majority  of  guests  who  were 
not  to  be  appeased  by  pastry  and  lemonade.  Among  the  five  girls 
who  were  left  behind  in  the  room  for  the  light  refreshments  was 
Nanina.  The  steward  soon  discovered  that  the  novelty  of  her  sit- 
uation made  her  really  nervous,  and  he  wisely  concluded  that  if  he 
trusted  her  where  the  crowd  was  greatest  and  the  noise  loudest,  she 
would  not  only  be  utterly  useless,  but  also  very  much  in  the  way  of 
her  more  confident  and  experienced  companions. 

When  Fabio  arrived  at  the  palace,  the  jovial  uproar  in  the  Heavy 
Department  was  at  its  height,  and  several  gentlemen,  fired  by  the 
classical  costumes  of  the  shepherdesses,  were  beginning  to  speak 
Latin  to  them  with  a  thick  utterance,  and  a  valorous  contempt  for 
-all  restrictions  of  gender,  number,  and  case.  As  soon  as  he  could 
escape  from  the  congratulations  on  his  return  to  his  friends,  which 
poured  on  him  from  all  sides,  Fabio  withdrew  to  seek  some  quieter 
room.  The  heat,  noise,  and  confusion  had  so  bewildered  him,  after 
the  tranquil  life  he  had  oeen  leading  for  many  months  past,  that  it 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  267 

was  quite  a  relief  to  stroll  through  the  half  deserted  dancing-rooms, 
ti>  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  great  suite  of  apartments,  and  there 
to  find  himself  in  a  second  Arcadian  bower,  which  seemed  peaceful 
enough  to  deserve  its-  name. 

A  frw  guests  \\i-n-  in  this  room  when  he  first  entered  it,  but  the 
distant  sound  of  some  first  notes  of  dance  music  drew  them  all 
away.  After  a  careless  look  at  the  quaint  decorations  about  him, 
lie  sat  down  alone  on  a  divan  near  the  door,  and  beginning  already 
to  feel  the  heat  and  discomfort  of  his  mask,  took  it  off.  He  had  not 
removed  it  more  than  a  moment  before  he  heard  a  faint  cry  in  the 
direction  of  a  long  refreshment-table,  behind  which  the  five  waiting- 
girls  were  standing.  He  started  up  directly,  and  could  hardly  believe 
his  senses,  when  he  found  himself  standing  face  to  face  with  Nanina. 

Her  chrrk-  had  turned  perfectly  colorless.  Her  astonishment  at 
seeing  the  young  nobleman  appeared  to  have  some  sensation  of  ter- 
ror mingled 'with  it.  The  waiting-woman  who  happened  to  stand 
by  her  side  instinctively  stretched  out  an  arm  to  support  her,  ob- 
serving that  she  caught  at  the  edge  of  the  table  as  Fabio  hurried 
round  to  get  behind  it  and  speak  to  her.  When  he  drew  near,  her 
head  drooped  on  her  breast,  and  she  said,  faintly,  "I  never  knew 
you  were  at  Pisa ;  I  never  thought  you  would  be  here.  Oh,  I  am 
true  to  what  I  said  in  my  letter,  though  I  seem  so  false  to  it !" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  the  letter  —  to  tell  you  how  care- 
fully I  have  kept  it,  how  often  I  have  read  it,"  said  Fabio. 

She  turned  away  her  head,  and  tried  hard  to  repress  the  tears 
that  would  force  their  way  into  her  eyes.  "We  should  never  have 
met,"  she  said ;  "  never,  never  have  met  again  !" 

Before  Fabio  could  reply,  the  waiting-woman  by  Nanina's  side 
interposed. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  stop  speaking  to  her  here !"  she  £ x- 
claimed,  impatiently.  "If  the  steward  or  one  of  the  upper  servants 
was  to  come  in,  you  would  get  her  into  dreadful  trouble.  Wait  till 
to-morrow,  and  find  some  fitter  place  than  this." 

Fabio  felt  the  justice  of  the  reproof  immediately.  He  tore  a  leaf 
out  of  his  pocket-book,  and  wrote  on  it,  "  I  must  tell  you  how  I 
honor  and  thank  you  for  that  letter.  To-morrow — ten  o'clock — the 
wicket-gate  at  the  back  of  the  Ascoli  gardens.  Believe  in  my  truth 
and  honor,  Nanina,  for  I  believe  implicitly  in  yours."  Having  writ- 
ten these  lines,  he  took  from  among  his  bunch  of  watch-seals  a  little 
key,  wrapped  it  up  in  the  note,  and  pressed  it  into  her  hand.  In 
spite  of  himself  his  fingers  lingered  round  hers,  and  he  was  on  the 
point  of  speaking  to  her  again,  when  he  saw  the  waiting-woman's 
hand,  which  was  just  raised  to  motion  him  away,  suddenly  drop. 
Her  color  changed  at  the  same  moment,  and  she  looked  fixedly 
across  the  table. 


268  AFTER  DARK. 

He  turned  round  immediately,  and  saw  a  masked  woman  stand- 
ing alone  in  the  room,  dressed  entirely  in  yellow  from  head  to  foot. 
She  had  a  yellow  hood,  a  yellow  half-mask  with  deep  fringe  hang- 
ing down  over  her  mouth,  and  a  yellow  domino,  cut  at  the  sleeves 
and  edges  into  long  flame-shaped  points,  which  waved  backward 
and  forward  tremulously  in  the  light  air  wafted  through  the  door- 
way. The  woman's  black  eyes  seemed  to  gleam  with  an  evil  bright- 
ness through  the  sight-holes  of  the  mask,  and  the  tawny  fringe  hang- 
ing before  her  mouth  fluttered  slowly  with  every  breath  she  drew. 
Without  a  word  or  a  gesture  she  stood  before  the  table,  and  her 
gleaming  black  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  Fabio  the  instant  he  con- 
fronted her.  A  sudden  chill  struck  through  him,  as  he  observed 
that  the  yellow  of  the  stranger's  domino  and  mask  was  of  precisely 
the  same  shade  as  the  yellow  of  the  hangings  and  furniture  which 
his  wife  had  chosen  after  their  marriage  for  the  decoration  of  her 
favorite  sitting-room. 

"  The  Yellow  Mask !"  whispered  the  waiting-girls  nervously,  crowd- 
ing together  behind  the  table.  "  The  Yellow  Mask  again !" 

"  Make  her  speak !" 

"  Ask  her  to  have  something !" 

"  This  gentleman  will  ask  her.  Speak  to  her,  sir.  Do  speak  to 
her  !  She  glides  about  in  that  fearful  yellow  dress  like  a  ghost." 

Fabio  looked  around  mechanically  at  the  girl  who  was  whisper- 
ing to  him.  He  saw  at  the  same  time  that  Nanina  still  kept  her 
head  turned  away,  and  that  she  had  her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes. 
She  was  evidently  struggling  yet  with  the  agitation  produced  by 
their  unexpected  meeting,  and  was,  most  probably  for  that  reason, 
the  only  person  in  the  room  not  conscious  of  the  presence  of  the  Yel- 
low Mask. 

u  Speak  to  her,  sir.  Do  speak  to  her !"  whispered  two  of  the 
waiting-girls  together. 

Fabio  turned  again  toward  the  table.  The  black  eyes  were  still 
gleaming  at  him  from  behind  the  tawny  yellow  of  the  mask.  He 
nodded  to  the  girls  who  had  just  spoken,  cast  one  farewell  look  at 
Nanina,  and  moved  down  the  room  to  get  round  to  the  side  of  the 
table  at  which  the  Yellow  Mask  was  standing.  Step  by  step  as  he 
moved  the  bright  eyes  followed  him.  Steadily  and  more  steadily 
their  evil  light  seemed  to  shine  through  and  through  him,  as  he 
turned  the  corner  of  the  table,  and  approached  the  still,  spectral 
figure. 

He  came  close  up  to  the  woman,  but  she  never  moved ;  her  eyes 
never  wavered  for  an  instant.  He  stopped  and  tried  to  speak  ;  but 
the  chill  struck  through  him  again.  An  overpowering  dread,  an 
unutterable  loathing  seized  on  him ;  all  sense  of  outer  things — the 
whispering  of  the  waiting-girls  behind  the  table,  the  gentle  cadence 


THE    YELLOW    MASK. 

of  the  dance  mnsic,  the  distant  hum  of  joyous  talk — suddenly  left 
him.  He  turned  away  shuddering,  and  quitted  the  room. 

Following  the  sound  of  the  music,  and  desiring  before  all  things 
now  to  join  the  crowd  wherever  it  was  largest,  he  was  stopped  in 
one  of  the  smaller  apartments  by  a  gentleman  who  had  just  risen 
from  the  card-table,  and  who  held  out  his  hand  with  the  cordiality 
of  an  old  friend. 

"  Welcome  back  to  the  world,  Count  Fabio !"  he  began  gayly,  then 
suddenly  checked  himself.  "  Why,  you  look  pale,  and  your  hand 
feels  cold.  Not  ill,  I  hope  ?" 

"No,  no.  I  have  been  rather  startled — I  can't  say  why — by  a 
very  strangely  dressed  woman,  who  fairly  stared  me  out  of  coun- 
tenance." 

"  You  don't  mean  the  Yellow  Mask  ?" 

"  Yes  I  do.    Have  you  seen  her  ?" 

"  Every  body  has  seen  her ;  but  nobody  can  make  her  unmask,  or 
get  her  to  speak.  Our  host  has  not  the  slightest  notion  who  she  is ; 
and  our  hostess  is  horribly  frightened  at  her.  For  my  part,  I  think 
she  has  given  us  quite  enough  of  her  mystery  and  her  grim  dress ; 
and  if  my  name,  instead  of  being  nothing  but  plain  Andrea  d'Arbino, 
was  Marquis  Melani,  I  would  say  to  her,  '  Madam,  we  are  here  to 
laugh  and  amuse  ourselves ;  suppose  you  open  your  lips,  and  charm 
us  by  appearing  in  a  prettier  dress !'  " 

During  this  conversation  they  had  sat  down  together,  with  their 
backs  toward  the  door,  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  card-tables.  While 
D'Arbino  was  speaking,  Fabio  suddenly  felt  himself  shuddering 
again,  and  became  conscious  of  a  sound  of  low  breathing  behind 
him. 

He  turned  round  instantly,  and  there,  standing  between  them, 
and  peering  down  at  them,  was  the  Yellow  Mask  ! 

Fabio  started  up,  and  his  friend  followed  his  example.  Again 
the  gleaming  black  eyes  rested  steadily  on  the  young  nobleman's 
face,  and  again  their  look  chilled  him  to  the  heart. 

"  Yellow  Lady,  do  you  know  my  friend  ?"  exclaimed  D'Arbino, 
with  mock  solemnity. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  fatal  eyes  never  moved  from  Fabio's 
face. 

"  Yellow  Lady,"  continued  the  other,  "  listen  to  the  music.  Will 
you  dance  with  me  ?" 

The  eyes  looked  away,  and  the  figure  glided  slowly  from  the 
room. 

"  My  dear  count,"  said  D'Arbino, "  that  woman  seems  to  have  quite 
an  effect  on  you.  I  declare  she  has  left  you  paler  than  ever.  Come 
into  the  supper-room  with  me,  and  have  some  wine ;  you  really  look 
as  if  you  wanted  it." 


270  AFTER  DARK. 

They  went  at  once  to  the  large  refreshment-room.  Nearly  all  the 
guests  had  by  this  time  begun  to  dance  flgain.  They  had  the  whole 
apartment,  therefore,  almost  entirely  to  themselves. 

Among  the  decorations  of  the  room,  which  were  not  strictly  in 
accordance  with  genuine  Arcadian  simplicity,  was  a  large  looking- 
glass,  placed  over  a  well-furnished  sideboard.  D'Arbino  led  Fabio 
in  this  direction,  exchanging  greetings  as  he  advanced  with  a  gen- 
tleman who  stood  near  the  glass  looking  into  it,  and  carelessly  fan- 
ning himself  with  his  mask. 

"  My  dear  friend  !"  cried  D'Arbino,  "  you  are  the  very  man  to  lead 
us  straight  to  the  best  bottle  of  wine  in  the  palace.  Count  Fabio, 
let  me  present  to  you  my  intimate  and  good  friend,  the  Cavaliere 
Finello,  with  whose  family  I  know  you  are  well  acquainted.  Finel- 
lo,  the  count  is  a  little  out  of  spirits,  and  I  have  prescribed  a  good 
dose  of  wine.  I  see  a  whole  row  of  bottles  at  your  side,  and  I  leave  it 
to  you  to  apply  the  remedy.  Glasses  there  !  three  glasses,  n;y  lovely 
shepherdess  with  the  black  eyes — the  three  largest  you  have  got." 

The  glasses  were  brought ;  the  Cavaliere  Finello  chose  a  particu- 
lar bottle,  and  filled  them.  All  three  gentlemen  turned  round  to 
the  sideboard  to  use  it  as  a  table,  and  thus  necessarily  faced  the 
looking-glass. 

"  Now  let  us  drink  the  toast  of  toasts,"  said  D'Arbino.  "  Finello, 
Count  Fabio — the  ladies  of  Pisa  !" 

Fabio  raised  the  wine  to  his  lips,  and  was  on  the  point  of  drink- 
ing it,  when  he  saw  reflected  in  the  glass  the  figure  of  the  Yellow 
Mask.  The  glittering  eyes  were  again  fixed  on  him,  and  the  yellow- 
hooded  head  bowed  slowly,  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of  the  toast  he 
was  about  to  drink.  For  the  third  time  the  strange  chill  seized 
him,  and  he  set  down  his  glass  of  wine  untasted. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  D'Arbino. 

"  Have  you  any  dislike,  count,  to  that  particular  wine  ?"  inquired 
the  cavaliere. 

"The  Yellow  Mask!"  whispered  Fabio.  "The  Yellow  Musk 
again !" 

They  all  three  turned  round  directly  toward  the  door.  But  it 
was  too  late — the  figure  had  disappeared. 

"  Does  any  one  know  who  this  Yellow  Mask  is  ?"  asked  Finello. 
"  One  may  guess  by  the  walk  that  the  figure  is  a  woman's.  Perhaps 
it  may  be  the  strange  color  she  has  chosen  for  her  dress,  or  perhaps 
her  stealthy  way  of  moving  from  room  to  room  ;  but  there  is  certain- 
ly something  mysterious  and  startling  about  her." 

"  Startling  enough,  as  the  count  would  tell  you,"  said  D'Arbino. 
"  The  Yellow  Mask  has  been  responsible  for  his  loss  of  spirits  and 
change  of  complexion,  and  now  she  has  prevented  him  even  from 
drinking  his  wine." 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  271 

"  I  can't  account  for  it,"  said  Fabio,  looking  round  him  uneasily ; 
"but  this  is  the  third  room  into  which  she  has  followed  me — the 
third  time  she  has  seemed  to  fix  her  eyes  on  me  alone.  I  suppose 
my  nerves  are  hardly  in  a  fit  state  yet  for  masked  balls  and  adven- 
tures; the  si<jht  of  her  seems  to  chill  me.  Who  can  she  be?" 

"If she  followed  me  a  fourth  time,"  said  Finello,  "I  should  insist 
on  her  unmasking." 

"And  suppose  she  refused  ?"  asked  his  friend. 

"  Then  I  should  take  her  mask  off  for  her." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  do  that  with  a  woman,"  said  Fabio.  "  I  pre- 
fer trying  to  lose  her  in  the  crowd.  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  if  I  leave 
you  to  finish  the  wine,  and  then  to  meet  me,  if  you  like,  in  the  great 
ball-room." 

He  retired  as  he  spoke,  put  on  his  mask,  and  joined  the  dancers 
immediately,  taking  care  to  keep  always  in  the  most  crowded  corner 
of  the  apartment.  For  some  time  this  plan  of  action  proved  suc- 
cessful, and  he  saw  no  more  of  the  mysterious  yellow  domino.  Ere 
long,  however,  some  new  dances  were  arranged,  in  which  the  great 
majority  of  the  persons  in  the  ball-room  took  part;  the  figures  re- 
sembling the  old  English  country  dances  in  this  respect,  that  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  were  placed  in  long  rows  opposite  to  each  oth- 
er. The  sets  consisted  of  about  twenty  couples  each,  placed  some- 
times across,  and  sometimes  along  the  apartment;  and  the  specta- 
tors were  all  required  to  move  away  on  either  side,  and  range  them- 
selves close  to  the  walls.  As  Fabio  among  others  complied  with 
this  necessity,  he  looked  down  a  row  of  dancers  waiting  during  the 
performance  of  the  orchestral  prelude;  and  there,  watching  him 
again,  from  the  opposite  end  of  the  lane  formed  by  the  gentlemen 
on  one  side  and  the  ladies  on  the  other,  he  saw  the  Yellow  Mask. 

He  moved  abruptly  back  toward  another  row  of  dancers,  placed 
at  right  angles  to  the  first  row ;  and  there  again,  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  gay  lane  of  brightly-dressed  figures,  was  the  Yellow  Mask. 
He  slipped  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  but  it  was  only  to  find  her 
occupying  his  former  position  near  the  wall,  and  still,  in  spite  of  his 
disguise,  watching  him  through  row  after  row  of  dancers.  The 
persecution  began  to  grow  intolerable ;  he  felt  a  kind  of  angry  cu- 
riosity mingling  uow  with  the  vague  dread  that  had  hitherto  op- 
pressed him.  Finello's  advice  recurred  to  his  memory ;  and  he  de- 
termined to  make  the  woman  unmask  at  all  hazards.  With  this  in- 
tention he  returned  to  the  supper-room  in  which  he  had  left  his 
friends. 

They  were  gone,  probably  to  the  ball-room,  to  look  for  him. 
Plenty  of  wine  was  still  left  on  the  sideboard,  and  he  poured  him- 
self out  a  glass.  Finding  that  his  hand  trembled  as  he  did  so,  he 
drank  eeveral  more  glasses  in  quick  succession,  to  nerve  himself  for 


272  AFTER   DAKK. 

the  approaching  encounter  with  the  Yellow  Mask.  While  he  was 
drinking  he  expected  every  moment  to  see  her  in  the  looking-glass 
again ;  but  she  never  appeared — and  yet  he  felt  almost  certain  that 
he  had  detected  her  gliding  out  after  him  when  he  left  the  ball-room. 

He  thought  it  possible  that  she  might  be  waiting  for  him  in  one 
of  the  smaller  apartments,  and,  taking  off  his  mask,  walked  through 
several  of  them  without  meeting  her,  until  he  came  to  the  door  of 
the  refreshment-room  in  which  Nanina  and  he  had  recognized  each 
other.  The  waiting-woman  behind  the  table,  who  had  first  spoken 
to  him,  caught  sight  of  him  now,  and  ran  round  to  the  door. 

"Don't  come  in  and  speak  to  Nanina  again,"  she  said,  mistaking 
the  purpose  which  had  brought  him  to  the  door.  "  What  with  fright- 
ening her  first,  and  making  her  cry  afterward,  you  have  rendered  her 
quite  unfit  for  her  work.  The  steward  is  in  there  at  this  moment, 
very  good-natured,  but  not  very  sober.  He  says  she  is  pale  and  red- 
eyed,  and  not  fit  to  be  a  shepherdess  any  longer,  and  that,  as  she 
will  not  be  missed  now,  she  may  go  home  if  she  likes.  We  have 
got  her  an  old  cloak,  and  she  is  going  to  try  and  slip  through  the 
rooms  unobserved,  to  get  down  stairs  and  change  her  dress.  Don't 
speak  to  her,  pray,  or  you  will  only  make  her  cry  again ;  and  what 
is  worse,  make  the  steward  fancy — " 

She  stopped  at  that  last  word,  and  pointed  suddenly  over  Fabio's 
shoulder. 

"  The  Yellow  Mask !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  sir,  draw  her  away 
into  the  ball-room,  and  give  Nanina  a  chance  of  getting  out !" 

Fabio  turned  directly,  and  approached  the  Mask,  who,  as  they 
looked  at  each  other,  slowly  retreated  before  him.  The  waiting- 
woman,  seeing  the  yellow  figure  retire,  hastened  back  to  Nanina  in 
the  refreshment-room. 

Slowly  the  masked  woman  retreated  from  one  apartment  to  an- 
other till  she  entered  a  corridor  brilliantly  lit  up  and  beautifully 
ornamented  with  flowers.  On  the  right  hand  this  corridor  led  to 
the  ball-room ;  on  the  left  to  an  antechamber  at  the  head  of  the 
palace  staircase.  The  Yellow  Mask  went  on  a  few  paces  toward  the 
left,  then  stopped.  The  bright  eyes  fixed  themselves  as  before  on 
Fabio's  face,  but  only  for  a  moment.  He  heard  a  light  step  behind 
him,  and  then  he  saw  the  eyes  move.  Following  the  direction  they 
took,  he  turned  round,  and  discovered  Nanina,  wrapped  up  in  the 
old  cloak  which  was  to  enable  her  to  get  down  stairs  unobserved. 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  get  out  ?  how  can  I  get  out  ?"  cried  the  girl, 
shrinking  back  affrightedly  as  she  saw  the  Yellow  Mask. 

"That  way,"  said  Fabio,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  ball- 
room. "  Nobody  will  notice  you  in  the  cloak ;  it  will  only  be 
thought  some  new  disguise."  He  took  her  arm  as  he  spoke,  to  re- 
assure her,  and  continued  in  a  whisper,  "  Don't  forget  to-morrow." 


THE    YELLOW   MASK.  273 

At  the  same  moment  he  felt  a  hand  laid  on  him.  It  was  the  hand 
of  the  masked  woman,  and  it  put  him  back  from  Nanina. 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  trembled  at  her  touch,  but  still  retained 
presence  of  mind  enough  to  sign  to  the  girl  to  make  her  escape. 
With  a  look  of  eager  inquiry  in  the  direction  of  the  mask,  and  a 
half  suppressed  exclamation  of  terror,  she  obeyed  him,  and  hasFened 
away  toward  the  ball-room. 

"  We  are  alone,"  said  Fabio,  confronting  the  gleaming  black  eyes, 
and  reaching  out  his  hand  resolutely  toward  the  Yellow  Mask. 
"  Tell  me  who  you  are,  and  why  you  follow  me,  or  I  will  uncover 
your  face,  and  solve  the  mystery  for  myself." 

The  woman  pushed  his  hand  aside,  and  drew  back  a  few  paces, 
but  never  spoke  a  word.  He  followed  her.  There  was  not  an  in- 
stant to  be  lost,  for  just  then  the  sound  of  footsteps  hastily  approach- 
ing the  corridor  became  audible. 

"  Now  or  never,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  and  snatched  at  the 
mask. 

His  arm  was  again  thrust  aside;  but  this  time  the  woman  raised 
her  disengaged  hand  at  the  same  moment,  and  removed  the  yellow 
mask. 

The  lamps  shed  their  soft  light  full  on  her  face. 

It  was  the  face  of  his  dead  wife. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SIONOR  ANDREA  D'ARBINO,  searching  vainly  through  the  various 
rooms  in  the  palace  for  Count  Fabio  d'Ascoli,  and  trying,  as  a  last 
resource,  the  corridor  leading  to  the  ball-room  and  grand  staircase, 
discovered  his  friend  lying  on  the  floor  in  a  swoon,  without  any  liv- 
ing creature  near  him.  Determining  to  avoid  alarming-  the  guests, 
if  possible,  D'Arbino  first  sought  help  in  the  antechamber.  He 
found  there  the  marquis's  valet,  assisting  the  Cavaliere  Finello  (who 
was  just  taking  his  departure)  to  put  on  his  cloak. 

While  Finello  and  his  friend  carried  Fabio  to  an  open  window  in 
the  antechamber,  the  valet  procured  some  iced  water.  This  simple 
remedy,  and  the  change  of  atmosphere,  proved  enough  to  restore 
the  fainting  man  to  his  senses,  but  hardly  —  as  it  seemed  to  his 
friends — to  his  former  self.  They  noticed  a  change  to  blankness 
and  stillness  in  his  face,  and  when  he  spoke,  an  indescribable  alter- 
ation in  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

"I  found  you  in  a  room  in  the  corridor,"  said  D'Arbino.  "What 
made  you  faint  ?  Don't  you  remember  ?  Was  it  the  heat  ?" 

Fabio  waited  for  a  moment,  painfully  collecting  his  ideas.  He 
looked  at  the  valet,  and  Finello  signed  to  the  man  to  withdraw. 

12* 


274  AFTER  DARK. 

"  Was  it  the  heat  ?"  repeated  D'Arbino. 

"  No,"  answered  Fabio,  in  strangely  hushed,  steady  tones.  "  I  have 
seen  the  face  that  was  behind  the  yellow  mask." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  It  was  the  face  of  my  dead  wife." 

"  Your  dead  wife  !" 

"  When  the  mask  was  removed  I  saw  her  face.  Not  as  I  re- 
member it  in  the  pride  of  her  youth  and  beauty— not  even  as  I  re- 
member her  on  her  sick-bed — but  as  I  remember  her  in  her  coffin." 

"  Count !  for  God's  sake,  rouse  yourself !  Collect  your  thoughts 
— remember  where  you  are — and  free  your  mind  of  its  horrible  de- 
lusion." 

"  Spare  me  all  remonstrances ;  I  am  not  fit  to  bear  them.  My  life 
has  only  one  object  now — the  pursuing  of  this  mystery  to  the  end. 
Will  you  help  me  ?  I  am  scarcely  fit  to  act  for  myself." 

He  still  spoke  in  the  same  unnaturally  hushed,  deliberate  tones. 
D'Arbino  and  Finello  exchanged  glances  behind  him  as  he  rose 
from  the  sofa  on  which  he  had  hitherto  been  lying. 

"  We  will  help  you  in  every  thing,"  said  D'Arbino,  soothingly. 
"  Trust  in  us  to  the  end.  What  do  you  wish  to  do  first  ?" 

"  The  figure  must  have  gone  through  this  room.  Let  us  descend 
the  staircase  and  ask  the  servants  if  they  have  seen  it  pass." 

(Both  D'Arbino  and  Finello  remarked  that  he  did  not  say  her.) 

They  inquired  down  to  the  very  court-yard.  Not  one  of  the  serv- 
ants had  seen  the  Yellow  Mask. 

The  last  resource  was  the  porter  at  the  outer  gate.  They  applied 
to  him ;  and  in  answer  to  their  questions  he  asserted  that  he  had 
most  certainly  seen  a  lady  in  a  yellow  domino  and  mask  drive  away, 
about  half  an  hour  before,  in  a  hired  coach. 

"  Should  you  remember  the  coachman  again  ?"  asked  D'Arbino. 

"  Perfectly ;  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"  And  you  know  where  he  lives  ?" 

"  Yes ;  as  well  as  I  know  where  I  do." 

"  Any  reward  you  like,  if  you  can  get  somebody  to  mind  your 
lodge,  and  can  take  us  to  that  house." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  following  the  porter  through  the 
dark,  silent  streets.  "  We  had  better  try  the  stables  first,"  said  the 
man.  "  My  friend,  the  coachman,  will  hardly  have  had  time  to  do 
more  than  set  the  lady  down.  We  shall  most  likely  catch  him  just 
putting  up  his  horses." 

The  porter  turned  out  to  be  right.  On  entering  the  stable-yard, 
they  found  that  the  empty  coach  had  just  driven  into  it. 

"  You  have  been  taking  home  a  lady  in  a  yellow  domino  from  the 
masquerade  ?"  said  D'Arbino,  putting  some  money  into  the  coach- 
man's hand, 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  275 

"Yes,  sir;  I  was  engaged  by  that  lady  for  the  evening  —  engaged 
to  drive  her  to  the  ball  as  well  as  to  drive  her  home." 

41  Where  did  you  take  her  from  ?" 

"  From  a  very  extraordinary  place  —  from  the  gate  of  the  Campo 
Santo  burial-ground." 

During  this  colloquy,  Finello  and  D'Arbino  had  been  standing 
with  Fabio  between  them,  each  giving  him  an  arm.  The  instant 
the  last  answer  was  given,  he  reeled  back  with  a  cry  of  horror. 

44  Where  have  you  taken  her  to  now  ?"  asked  D'Arbino.  He  look- 
ed about  him  nervously  as  he  put  the  question,  and  spoke  for  the 
first  time  in  a  whisper. 

"To  the  Campo  Santo  again,"  said  the  coachman. 

Fabio  suddenly  drew  his  arms  out  of  the  arms  of  his  friends, 
and  sank  to  his  knees  on  the  ground,  hiding  his  face.  From  some 
broken  ejaculations  which  escaped  him,  it  seemed  as  if  he  dreaded 
that  his  senses  were  leaving  him,  and  that  he  was  praying  to  be 
preserved  in  his  right  mind. 

44  Why  is  he  so  violently  agitated  ?"  said  Finello,  eagerly,  to  his 
friend. 

44  Hush  !"  returned  the  other.  "  You  heard  him  say  that  when  he 
saw  the  face  behind  the  yellow  mask,  it  was  the  face  of  his  dead 


44  Yes.     But  what  then?" 

44  His  wife  was  buried  in  the  Campo  Santo." 


CHAPTER  V. 

OF  all  the  persons  who  had  been  present,  in  any  capacity,  at  the 
Marquis  Melani's  ball,  the  earliest  riser  on  the  morning  after  it  was 
Nanina.  The  agitation  produced  by  the  strange  events  in  which 
she  had  been  concerned  destroyed  the  very  idea  of  sleep.  Through 
the  hours  of  darkness  she  could  not  even  close  her  eyes;  and,  as 
soon  as  the  new  day  broke,  she  rose  to  breathe  the  early  morning 
air  at  her  window,  and  to  think  in  perfect  tranquillity  over  all  that 
had  passed  since  she  entered  the  Melani  Palace  to  wait  on  the  guests 
at  the  masquerade. 

On  reaching  home  the  previous  night,  all  her  other  sensations  had 
been  absorbed  in  a  vague  feeling  of  mingled  dread  and  curiosity, 
produced  by  the  sight  <>f  the  weird  figure  in  the  yellow  mask,  which 
she  had  left  standing  alone  with  Fabio  in  the  palace  corridor.  The 
morning  light,  however,  suggested  new  thoughts.  She  now  opened 
the  note  which  the  young  nobleman  had  pressed  into  her  hand,  and 
read  over  and  over  again  the  hurried  pencil  lines  scrawled  on  the 


276  AFTER  DARK. 

paper.  Could  there  be  any  harm,  any  forgetfulnees  of  her  own  duty, 
in  using  the  key  inclosed  in  the  note,  and  keeping  her  appointment 
in  the  Ascoli  gardens  at  ten  o'clock  ?  Surely  not  —  surely  the  last 
sentence  he  had  written,  "  Believe  in  my  truth  and  honor,  Nanina, 
for  I  believe  implicitly  in  yours,"  was  enough  to  satisfy  her  this  time 
that  she  could  not  be  doing  wrong  in  listening  for  once  to  the  plead- 
ing of  her  own  heart.  And  besides,  there  in  her  lap  lay  the  key  of 
the  wicket-gate.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  use  that,  if  only  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  it  back  safely  into  the  hand  of  its  owner. 

As  this  last  thought  was  passing  through  her  mind,  and  plausibly 
overcoming  any  faint  doubts  and  difficulties  which  she  might  still 
have  left,  she  was  startled  by  a  sudden  knocking  at  the  street  door; 
and,  looking  out  of  the  window  immediately,  saw  a  man  in  livery 
standing  in  the  street,  anxiously  peering  up  at  the  house  to  see  if 
his  knocking  had  aroused  any  body. 

"  Does  Marta  Angrisani,  the  sick-nurse,  live  here  ?"  inquired  the 
man,  as  soon  as  Nanina  showed  herself  at  the  window. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Must  I  call  her  up  ?  Is  there  some  per- 
son ill  ?" 

"  Call  her  up  directly,"  said  the  servant ;  "  she  is  wanted  at  the 
Ascoli  Palace.  My  master,  Count  Fabio — " 

Nanina  waited  to  hear  no  more.  She  flew  to  the  room  in  which 
the  sick-nurse  slept,  and  awoke  her,  almost  roughly,  in  an  instant. 

"  He  is  ill !"  she  cried,  breathlessly.  "  Oh,  make  haste,  make 
haste  !  He  is  ill,  and  he  has  sent  for  you !" 

Marta  inquired  who  had  sent  for  her,  and  on  being  informed, 
promised  to  lose  no  time.  Nanina  ran  down  stairs  to  tell  the  serv- 
ant that  the  sick-nurse  was  getting  on  her  clothes.  The  man's  se- 
rious expression,  when  she  came  close  to  him,  terrified  her.  All  her 
usual  self-  distrust  vanished ;  and  she  entreated  him,  without  at- 
tempting to  conceal  her  anxiety,  to  tell  her  particularly  what  his 
master's  illness  was,  and  how  it  had  affected  him  so  suddenly  after 
the  ball. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  answered  the  man,  noticing  Nanina's 
manner  as  she  put  her  question,  with  some  surprise,  "  except  that 
my  master  was  brought  home  by  two  gentlemen,  friends  of  his, 
about  a  couple  of  hours  ago,  in  a  very  sad  state;  half  out  of  his 
"mind,  as  it  seemed  to  me.  I  gathered  from  what  was  said  that  he 
had  got  a  dreadful  shock  from  seeing  some  woman  take  off  her 
mask,  and  show  her  face  to  him  at  the  ball.  How  that  could  be  I 
don't  in  the  least  understand;  but  I  know  that  when  the  doctor  was 
sent  for,  he  looked  very  serious,  and  talked  about  fearing  brain-fever." 

Here  the  servant  stopped ;  for,  to  his  astonishment,  he  saw  Nanina 
suddenly  turn  away  from  him,  and  then  heard  her  crying  bitterly  as 
she  went  back  into  the  house. 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  277 

Marta  Angrisani  had  huddled  on  her  clothes,  and  was  looking  at 
herself  in  the  glass  to  see  that  she  was  sufficiently  presentable  to 
appear  at  the  palace,  when  she  felt  two  arms  flung  round  her  neck; 
and,  before  she  could  say  a  word,  found  Nanina  sobbing  on  her 
bosom. 

"He  is  ill  —  he  is  in  danger!"  cried  the  girl.  "I  must  go  with 
you  to  help  him.  You  have  always  been  kind  to  me,  Marta  —  be 
kinder  than  ever  now.  Take  me  with  you — take  me  with  you  to 
the  palace !" 

"  You,  child  !"  exclaimed  the  nurse,  gently  unclasping  her  arms. 

"  Yes — yes  !  if  it  is  only  for  an  hour,"  pleaded  Nanina ;  "  if  it  is 
only  for  one  little  hour  every  day.  You  have  only  to  say  that  I  am 
your  helper,  and  they  would  let  me  in.  Marta !  I  shall  break  my 
heart  if  I  can't  see  him,  and  help  him  to  get  well  again." 

The  nurse  still  hesitated.  Nanina  clasped  her  round  the  neck 
once  more,  and  laid  her  cheek — burning  hot  now,  though  the  tears 
had  been  streaming  down  it  but  an  instant  before — close  to  the  good 
woman's  face. 

""I  love  him,  Marta ;  great  as  he  is,  I  love  him  with  all  my  heart 
and  soul  and  strength,"  she  went  on,  in  quick,  eager,  whispering 
tones ;  "  and  he  loves  me.  He  would  have  married  me,  if  I  had  not 
gone  away  to  save  him  from  it.  I  could  keep  my  love  for  him  a 
secret  while  he  was  well ;  I  could  stifle  it,  and  crush  it  down,  and 
wither  it  up  by  absence.  But  now  he  is  ill,  it  gets  beyond  me ;  I 
can't  master  it.  Oh,  Marta !  don't  break  my  heart  by  denying  me ! 
I  have  suffered  so  much  for  his  sake,  that  I  have  earned  the  right  to 
nurse  him !" 

Marta  was  not  proof  against  this  last  appeal.  She  had  one  great 
and  rare  merit  for  a  middle-aged  woman — she  had  not  forgotten  her 
own  youth. 

u  Come,  child,"  said  she,  soothingly ;  "  I  won't  attempt  to  deny 
you.  Dry  your  eyes,  put  on  your  mantilla;  and,  when  we  get  face 
to  face  with  the  doctor,  try  to  look  as  old  and  ugly  as  you  can,  if 
you  want  to  be  let  into  the  sick-room  along  with  me." 

The  ordeal  of  medical  scrutiny  was  passed  more  easily  than  Marta 
Angrisani  had  anticipated.  It  was  of  great  importance,  in  the  doc- 
tor's opinion,  that  the  sick  man  should  see  familiar  faces  at  his  bed- 
side. Nanina  had  only,  therefore,  to  state  that  he  knew  her  well, 
and  that  she  had  sat  to  him  as  a  model  in  the  days  when  he  was 
learning  the  art  of  sculpture,  to  be  immediately  accepted  as  Maria's 
privileged  assistant  in  the  sick-room. 

The  worst  apprehensions  felt  by  the  doctor  for  the  patient  were 
soon  realized.  The  fever  flew  to  his  brain.  For  nearly  six  weeks 
he  lay  prostrate,  at  the  mercy  of  death ;  now  raging  with  the  wild 
strength  of  delirium,  and  now  sunk  in  the  speechless,  motionless, 


2V8  AFTER   DARK. 

sleepless  exhaustion  which  was  his  only  repose.  At  last  the  blessed 
day  came  when  he  enjoyed  his  first  sleep,  and  when  the  doctor  be- 
gan, for  the  first  time,  to  talk  of  the  future  with  hope.  Even  then, 
however,  the  same  terrible  peculiarity  marked  his  light  dreams 
which  had  previously  shown  itself  in  his  fierce  delirium.  From  the 
faintly  uttered,  broken  phrases  which  dropped  from  him  when  he 
slept,  as  from  the  wild  words  which  burst  from  him  when  his  senses 
were  deranged,  the  one  sad  discovery  inevitably  resulted — that  his 
mind  was  still  haunted,  day  and  night,  hour  after  hour,  by  the  fig- 
ure in  the  yellow  mask. 

As  his  bodily  health  improved,  the  doctor  in  attendance  on  him 
grew  more  and  more  anxious  as  to  the  state  of  his  mind.  There 
was  no  appearance  of  any  positive  derangement  of  intellect,  but  there 
was  a  mental  depression— an  unaltering,  invincible  prostration,  pro- 
duced by  his  absolute  belief  in  the  reality  of  the  dreadful  vision 
that  he  had  seen  at  the  masked  ball — whicli  suggested  to  the  phy- 
sician the  gravest  doubts  about  the  case.  He  saw  with  dismay  that 
the  patient  showed  no  anxiety,  as  he  got  stronger,  except  on  one 
subject.  He  was  eagerly  desirous  of  seeing  Nanina  every  day  by 
his  bedside  ;  but,  as  soon  as  he  was  assured  that  his  wish  should  be 
faithfully  complied  with,  he  seemed  to  care  for  nothing  more.  Even 
when  they  proposed,  in  the  hope  of  rousing  him  to  an  exhibition  of 
something  like  pleasure,  that  the  girl  should  read  to  him  for  an 
hour  every  day  out  of  one  of  his  favorite  books,  he  only  showed  a 
languid  satisfaction.  Weeks  passed  away,  and  still,  do  what  they 
would,  they  could  not  make  him  so  much  as  smile. 

One  day  Nanina  had  begun  to  read  to  him  as  usual,  but  had  not 
proceeded  far  before  Marta  Angrisani  informed  her  that  he  had  fall- 
en into  a  doze.  She  ceased  with  a  sigh,  and  sat  looking  at  him 
sadly,  as  he  lay  near  her,  faint  and  pale  and  mournful  in  his  sleep — 
miserably  altered  from  what  he  was  when  she  first  knew  him.  It 
had  been  a  hard  trial  to  watch  by  his  bedside  in  the  terrible  time 
of  his  delirium ;  but  it  was  a  harder  trial  still  to  look  at  him  now, 
and  to  feel  less  and  less  hopeful  with  each  succeeding  day. 

While  her  eyes  and  thoughts  were  still  compassionately  fixed  on 
him,  the  door  of  the  bedroom  opened,  and  the  doctor  came  in,  fol- 
lowed by  Andrea  d'Arbino,  whose  share  in  the  strange  adventure 
with  the  Vellow  Mask  caused  him  to  feel  a  special  interest  in  Fabio's 
progress  toward  recovery. 

"  Asleep,  I  see ;  and  sighing  in  his  sleep,"  said  the  doctor,  going 
to  the  bedside.  "The  grand  difficulty  with  him,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  D'Arbino,  "  remains  precisely  what  it  was.  I  have  hard- 
ly left  a  single  means  untried  of  rousing  him  from  that  fatal  depres- 
sion; yet,  for  the  last  fortnight,  he  has  not  advanced  a  single  step. 
It  is  impossible  to  shake  his  conviction  of  the  reality  of  that  face 


THE   YELLOW  MASK. 

which  he  saw  (or  rather  which  he  thinks  he  saw)  when  the  yellow 
mask  was  removed ;  and,  as  long  as  he  persists  in  his  own  shocking 
view  of  the  case,  so  long  he  will  lie  there,  getting  better,  no  doubt, 
as  to  his  body,  but  worse  as  to  his  mind." 

"  I  suppose,  poor  fellow,  he  is  not  in  a  fit  state  to  be  reasoned 
with  ?" 

"On  the  contrary,  like  all  men  with  a  fixed  delusion,  he  has 
plenty  of  intelligence  to  appeal  to  on  every  point,  except  the  one 
point  on  which  he  is  wrong.  I  have  argued  with  him  vainly  by  the 
hour  together.  He  possesses,  unfortunately,  an  acute  nervous  sensi- 
bility and  a  vivid  imagination ;  and  besides,  he  has,  as  I  suspect, 
been  superstitiously  brought  up  as  a  child.  It  would  be  probably 
useless  to  argue  rationally  with  him  on  certain  spiritual  subjects, 
even  if  his  mind  was  in  perfect  health.  He  has  a  good  deal  of  the 
mystic  and  the  dreamer  in  his  composition ;  and  science  and  logic 
are  but  broken  reeds  to  depend  upon  with  men  of  that  kind." 

"  Does  he  merely  listen  to  you  when  you  reason  with  him,  or  does 
he  attempt  to  answer  ?" 

"  He  has  only  one  form  of  answer,  and  that  is,  unfortunately,  the 
most  difficult  of  all  to  dispose  of.  Whenever  I  try  to  convince  him 
of  his  delusion,  he  invariably  retorts  by  asking  me  for  a  rational 
explanation  of  what  happened  to  him  at  the  masked  ball.  Now, 
neither  you  nor  I,  though  we  believe  firmly  that  he  has  been  the 
dupe  of  some  infamous  conspiracy,  have  been  able  as  yet  to  pene- 
trate thoroughly  into  this  mystery  of  the  Yellow  Mask.  Our  com- 
mon sense  tells  us  that  he  must  be  wrong  in  taking  his  view  of  it, 
and  that  we  must  be  right  in  taking  ours ;  but  if  we  can  not  give 
him  actual,  tangible  proof  of  that — if  we  can  only  theorize,  when  he 
asks  us  for  an  explanation — it  is  but  too  plain,  in  his  present  condi- 
tion, that  every  time  we  remonstrate  with  him  on  the  subject  we 
only  fix  him  in  his  delusion  more  and  more  firmly." 

"  It  is  not  for  want  of  perseverance  on  my  part,"  said  D'Arbino, 
after  a  moment  of  silence,  "  that  we  are  still  left  in  the  dark.  Ever 
since  the  extraordinary  statement  of  the  coachman  who  drove  the 
woman  home,  I  have  been  inquiring  and  investigating.  I  have  of- 
fered the  reward  of  two  hundred  scudi  for  the  discovery  of  her ; 
I  have  myself  examined  the  servants  at  the  palace,  the  night-watch- 
man at  the  Campo  Santo,  the  police  -  books,  the  lists  of  keepers  of 
hotels  and  lodging-houses,  to  hit  on  some  trace  of  this  woman ;  and 
I  have  failed  in  all  directions.  If  my  poor  friend's  perfect  recov- 
ery does  indeed  depend  on  his  delusion  being  combated  by  actual 
proof,  I  fear  we  have  but  little  chance  of  restoring  him.  So  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  I  confess  myself  at  the  end  of  my  resources." 

"I  hope  we  are  not  quite  conquered  yet,"  returned  the  doctor. 
"  The  proofs  we  want  may  turn  up  when  we  least  expect  them.  It 


280  AFTER  DAKK. 

is  certainly  a  miserable  case,"  he  continued,  mechanically  laying  his 
fingers  on  the  sleeping  man's  pulse.  "  There  he  lies,  wanting  noth- 
ing now  but  to  recover  the  natural  elasticity  of  his  mind  ;  and  here 
we  stand  at  his  bedside,  unable  to  relieve  him  of  the  weight  that 
is  pressing  his  faculties  down.  I  repeat  it,  Signor  Andrea,  nothing 
will  rouse  him  from  his  delusion  that  he  is  the  victim  of  a  super- 
natural interposition,  but  the  production  of  some  startling,  practical 
proof  of  his  error.  At  present  he  is  in  the  position  of  a  man  who 
has  been  imprisoned  from  his  birth  in  a  dark  room,  and  who  denies 
the  existence  of  daylight.  If  we  can  not  open  the  shutters,  and 
show  him  the  sky  outside,  we  shall  never  convert  him  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  truth." 

Saying  these  words,  the  doctor  turned  to  lead  the  way  out  of  the 
room,  and  observed  Nanina,  who  had  moved  from  the  bedside  on 
his  entrance,  standing  near  the  door.  He  stopped  to  look  at  her, 
shook  his  head  good-humoredly,  and  called  to  Marta,  who  happen- 
ed to  be  occupied  in  an  adjoining  room. 

"  Signora  Marta,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  think  you  told  me  some 
time  ago  that  your  pretty  and  careful  little  assistant  lives  in  your 
house.  Pray,  does  she  take  much  walking  exercise  ?" 

"Very  little,  Signor  Dottore.  She  goes  home  to  her  sister  when 
she  leaves  the  palace.  Very  little  walking  exercise  indeed." 

"  I  thought  so !  Her  pale  cheeks  and  heavy  eyes  told  me  as 
much.  Now,  my  dear,"  said  the  doctor,  addressing  Nanina,  "  you 
are  a  very  good  girl,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  attend  to  what  I  tell 
you.  Go  out  every  morning  before  you  come  here,  and  take  a  walk 
in  the  fresh  air.  You  are  too  young  not  to  suffer  by  being  shut  up 
in  close  rooms  every  day,  unless  you  get  some  regular  exercise. 
Take  a  good  long  walk  in  the  morning,  or  you  will  fall  into  my 
hands  as  a  patient,  and  be  quite  unfit  to  continue  your  attendance 
here.  Now,  Signor  Andrea,  I  am  ready  for  you.  Mind,  my  child, 
a  walk  every  day  in  the  open  air  outside  the  town,  or  you  will  fall 
ill,  take  my  word  for  it !" 

Nanina  promised  compliance ;  but  she  spoke  rather  absently,  and 
seemed  scarcely  conscious  of  the  kind  familiarity  which  marked  the 
doctor's  manner.  The  truth  was,  that  all  her  thoughts  were  oc- 
cupied with  what  he  had  been  saying  by  Fabio's  bedside.  She  had 
not  lost  one  word  of  the  conversation  while  the  doctor  was  talking 
of  his  patient,  and  of  the  conditions  on  which  his  recovery  depend- 
ed. "  Oh,  if  that  proof  which  would  cure  him  could  only  be  found !" 
she  thought  to  herself,  as  she  stole  back  anxiously  to  the  bedside 
when  the  room  was  empty. 

On  getting  home  that  day  she  found  a  letter  waiting  for  her,  and 
was  greatly  surprised  to  see  that  it  was  written  by  no  less  a  person 
than  the  master-sculptor,  Luca  Lomi.  It  was  very  short;  simply 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  281 

informing  her  that  he  had  just  returned  to  Pisa,  and  that  he  was 
anxious  t<>  know  when  she  could  sit  to  him  for  a  new  bust — a  com- 
mi>-ii>n  t'nuii  a  rich  foreigner  at  Naples. 

Nanina  debated  with  herself  for  a  moment  whether  she  should 
answer  the  Ictti-r  in  the  hardest  way,  to  her,  by  writing,  or,  in  the 
easiest  way,  in  person  ;  and  decided  on  going  to  the  studio  and  tell- 
ing tin-  master-sculptor  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  serve 
him  us  a  model,  at  least  for  some  time  to  come.  It  would  have 
taken  her  a  long  hour  to  say  this  with  due  propriety  on  paper;  it 
would  only  take  her  a  few  minutes  to  say  it  with  her  own  lips.  So 
she  put  on  her  mantilla  again,  and  departed  for  the  studio. 

On  arriving  at  the  gate  and  ringing  the  bell,  a  thought  suddenly 
occurred  to  her,  which  she  wondered  had  not  struck  her  before. 
Was  it  not  possible  that  she  might  meet  Father  Rocco  in  his  broth- 
er's work-room  ?  It  was  too  late  to  retreat  now,  but  not  too  late 
to  ask,  before  she  entered,  if  the  priest  was  in  the  studio.  Accord- 
ingly, when  one  of  the  workmen  opened  the  door  to  her,  she  in- 
quired first,  very  confusedly  and  anxiously,  for  Father  Rocco.  Hear- 
ing that  he  was  not  with  his  brother  then,  she  went  tranquilly 
enough  to  make  her  apologies  to  the  master-sculptor. 

She  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell  him  more  than  that  she  was 
now  occupied  every  day  by  nursing  duties  in  a  sick-room,  and  that 
it  was  consequently  out  of  her  power  to  attend  at  the  studio.  Luca 
Lomi  expressed,  and  evidently  felt,  great  disappointment  at  her 
failing  him  as  a  model,  and  tried  hard  to  persuade  her  that  she 
might  find  time  enough,  if  she  chose,  to  sit  to  him,  as  well  as  to 
nurse  the  sick  person.  The  more  she  resisted  his  arguments  and 
entreaties,  the  more  obstinately  he  reiterated  them.  He  was  dust- 
ing his  favorite  busts  and  statues,  after  his  long  absence,  with  a 
feather-brush  when  she  came  in ;  and  he  continued  this  occupation 
all  the  while  he  was  talking — urging  a  fresh  plea  to  induce  Nanina 
to  reconsider  her  refusal  to  sit  at  every  fresh  piece  of  sculpture  he 
came  to,  and  always  receiving  the  same  resolute  apology  from  her 
as  she  slowly  followed  him  down  the  studio  toward  the  door. 

Arriving  thus  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room,  Luca  stopped  with  a 
fresh  argument  on  his  lips  before  his  statue  of  Minerva.  He  had 
dusted  it  already,  but  he  lovingly  returned  to  dust  it  again.  It 
was  his  favorite  work — the  only  good  likeness  (although  it  did  as- 
sume to  represent  a  classical  subject)  of  his  dead  daughter  that  he 
possessed.  He  had  refused  to  part  with  it  for  Maddalena's  sake; 
and,  as  he  now  approached  it  with  his  brush  for  the  second  time, 
he  absently  ceased  speaking,  and  mounted  on  a  stool  to  look  at  the 
face  near  and  blow  some  specks  of  dust  off  the  forehead.  Nanina 
thought  this  a  good  opportunity  of  escaping  from  further  impor- 
tunities. She  was  on  the  point  of  slipping  away  to  the  door  with 

12 


282  AFTER   DAKK. 

a  word  of  farewell,  when  a  sudden  exclamation  from  Luca  Lomi 
arrested  her. 

"  Plaster  1"  cried  the  master-sculptor,  looking  intently  at  that  part 
of  the  hair  of  the  statue  which  lay  lowest  on  the  forehead.  "  Plaster 
here !"  He  took  out  his  penknife  as  he  spoke,  and  removed  a  tiny 
morsel  of  some  white  substance  from  an  interstice  between  two  folds 
of  the  hair  where  it  touched  the  face.  "  It  is  plaster !"  he  exclaimed, 
excitedly.  "  Somebody  has  been  taking  a  cast  from  the  face  of  my 
statue !" 

He  jumped  off  the  stool,  and  looked  all  round  the  studio  with  an 
expression  of  suspicious  inquiry.  "  I  must  have  this  cleared  up,"  he 
said.  "  My  statues  were  left  under  Rocco's  care,  and  he  is  answer- 
able if  there  has  been  any  stealing  of  casts  from  any  one  of  them. 
I  must  question  him  directly." 

Nanina  seeing  that  he  took  no  notice  of  her,  felt  that  she  might 
now  easily  effect  her  retreat.  She  opened  the  studio  door,  and  re- 
peated, for  the  twentieth  time  at  least,  that  she  was  sorry  she  could 
not  sit  to  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  too,  child,"  he  said,  irritably  looking  about  for  his 
hat.  He  found  it  apparently  just  as  Nanina  was  going  out ;  for  she 
heard  him  call  to  one  of  the  workmen  in  the  inner  studio,  and  order 
the  man  to  say,  if  any  body  wanted  him,  that  he  had  gone  to  Father 
Rocco's  lodgings. 


CHAPTER  VL 

THE  next  morning,  when  Nanina  arose,  a  bad  attack  of  headache, 
and  a  sense  of  languor  and  depression,  reminded  her  of  the  necessity 
of  following  the  doctor's  advice,  and  preserving  her  health  by  get- 
ting a  little  fresh  air  and  exercise.  She  had  more  than  two  hours 
to  spare  before  the  usual  time  when  her  daily  attendance  began  at 
the  Ascoli  Palace ;  and  she  determined  to  employ  the  interval  of 
leisure  in  taking  a  morning  walk  outside  the  town.  La  Biondella 
would  have  been  glad  enough  to  go  too,  but  she  had  a  large  order 
for  dinner-mats  on  hand,  and  was  obliged,  for  that  day,  to  stop  in 
the  house  and  work.  Thus  it  happened  that  when  Nanina  set  forth 
from  home,  the  learned  poodle,  Scarammuccia,  was  her  only  com- 
panion. 

She  took  the  nearest  way  out  of  the  town ;  the  dog  trotting  along 
in  his  usual  steady,  observant  way,  close  at  her  side,  pushing  his 
great  rough  muzzle,  from  time  to  time,  affectionately  into  her  hand, 
and  trying  hard  to  attract  her  attention  at  intervals  by  barking  and 
capering  in  front  of  her.  He  got  but  little  notice,  however,  for  his 
pains,  Nanina  was  thinking  again  of  all  that  the  physician  had 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  283 

said  the  day  before  by  Fabio's  bedside,  and  these  thoughts  brought 
with  them  others,  equally  absorbing,  that  were  connected  with  the 
mysterious  story  of  the  young  nobleman's  adventure  with  the  Yel- 
low Mask.  Thus  preoccupied,  she  had  little  attention  left  for  the 
gambols  of  the  dog.  Even  the  beauty  of  the  morning  appealed  to 
her  in  vain.  She  felt  the  refreshment  of  the  cool,  fragrant  air,  but 
she  hardly  noticed  the  lovely  blue  of  the  sky,  or  the  bright  sun- 
shine that  gave  a  gayety  and  an  interest  to  the  commonest  objects 
around  her. 

After  walking  nearly  an  hour,  she  began  to  feel  tired,  and  looked 
about  for  a  shady  place  to  rest  in. 

Beyond  and  behind  her  there  was  only  the  high-road  and  the  flat 
country ;  but  by  her  side  stood  a  little  wooden  building,  half  inn, 
hall'  coffee-house,  backed  by  a  large,  shady  pleasure-garden,  the  gates 
of  which  stood  invitingly  open.  Some  workmen  in  the  garden  were 
putting  up  a  stage  for  fire-works,  but  the  place  was  otherwise  quiet 
and  lonely  enough.  It  was  only  used  at  night  as  a  sort  of  rustic 
Ranelagh,  to  which  the  citizens  of  Pisa  resorted  for  pure  air  and 
amtiM-incnt  after  the  fatigues  of  the  day.  Observing  that  there  were 
no  visitors  in  the  grounds,  Nanina  ventured  in,  intending  to  take  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  rest  in  the  coolest  place  she  could  find  before 
returning  to  Pisa. 

She  had  passed  the  back  of  a  wooden  summer-house  in  a  se- 
cluded part  of  the  gardens,  when  she  suddenly  missed  the  dog  from 
her  side ;  and,  looking  round  after  him,  saw  that  he  was  standing 
behind  the  summer-house  with  his  ears  erect  and  his  nose  to  the 
ground,  having  evidently  that  instant  scented  something  that  ex- 
cited his  suspicion. 

Thinking  it  possible  that  he  might  be  meditating  an  attack  on 
some  unfortunate  cat,  she  turned  to  see  what  he  was  watching. 
The  carpenters  engaged  on  the  fire-work  stage  were  just  then  ham- 
mering at  it  violently.  The  noise  prevented  her  from  hearing  that 
Srarannnuccia  was  growling,  but  she  could  feel  that  he  was  the 
moment  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  back.  Her  curiosity  was  excited, 
and  she  stooped  down  close  to  him,  to  look  through  a  crack  in  the 
boards  before  which  he  stood  into  the  summer-house. 

She  was  startled  at  seeing  a  lady  and  gentleman  sitting  inside. 
The  place  she  was  looking  through  was  not  high  enough  up  to  en- 
able her  to  see  their  faces,  but  she  recognized,  or  thought  she  recog- 
ni/ed.  the  pattern  of  the  lady's  dress  as  one  which  she  had  noticed 
in  former  days  in  the  Demoiselle  Grifoni's  show-room.  Rising  quick- 
ly, her  eye  detected  a  hole  in  the  boards  about  the  level  of  her  own 
height,  caused  by  a  knot  having  been  forced  out  of  the  wood.  She 
looked  through  it  to  ascertain,  without  being  discovered,  if  the 
wearer  of  the  familiar  dress  was  the  person  she  had  taken  her  to 


284  AFTER   DARK. 

be;  and  saw,  not  Brigida  only,  as  she  had  expected,  but  Father 
Rocco  as  well.  At  the  same  moment  the  carpenters  left  off  ham- 
mering and  began  to  saw.  The  new  sound  from  the  fire-work  stage 
was  regular  and.  not  loud.  The  voices  of  the  occupants  of  the  sum- 
mer-house reached  her  through  it,  and  she  heard  Brigida  pronounce 
the  name  of  Count  Fabio. 

Instantly  stooping  down  once  more  by  the  dog's  side,  she  caught 
his  muzzle  firmly  in  both  her  hands.  It  was  the  only  way  to  keep 
Scarammuccia  from  growling  again,  at  a  time  when  there  was  no 
din  of  hammering  to  prevent  him  from  being  heard.  Those  two 
words,  "  Count  Fabio,"  in  the  mouth  of  another  woman,  excited  a 
jealous  anxiety  in  her.  What  could  Brigida  have  to  say  in  con- 
nection with  that  name  ?  She  never  came  near  the  Ascoli  Palace— 
what  right  or  reason  could  she  have  to  talk  of  Fabio  ? 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?"  she  heard  Brigida  ask,  in  her  cool- 
est, hardest  tone. 

"  No,"  the  priest  answered.     "  At  least,  not  all  of  it." 

"  I  will  repeat  it,  then.  I  asked  what  had  so  suddenly  determined 
you  to  give  up  all  idea  of  making  any  future  experiments  on  the 
superstitious  fears  of  Count  Fabio  ?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  the  result  of  the  experiment  already  tried  has 
been  so  much  more  serious  than  I  had  anticipated,  that  I  believe  the 
end  I  had  in  view  in  making  it  has  been  answered  already." 

"  Well ;  that  is  not  your  only  reason  ?" 

"Another  shock  to  his  mind  might  be  fatal  to  him.  I  can  use 
what  I  believe  to  be  a  justifiable  fraud  to  prevent  his  marrying 
again ;  but  I  can  not  burden  myself  with  a  crime." 

"  That  is  your  second  reason ;  but  I  believe  you  have  another  yet. 
The  suddenness  with  which  you  sent  to  me  last  night  to  appoint  a 
meeting  in  this  lonely  place;  the  emphatic  manner  in  which  you 
requested — I  may  almost  say  ordered — me  to  bring  the  wax  mask 
here,  suggest  to  my  mind  that  something  must  have  happened. 
What  is  it  ?  I  am  a  woman,  and .  my  curiosity  must  be  satisfied. 
After  the  secrets  you  have  trusted  to  me  already,  you  need  not  hes- 
itate, I  think,  to  trust  me  with  one  more." 

"  Perhaps  not.  The  secret  this  time  is,  moreover,  of  no  great  im- 
portance. You  know  that  the  wax  mask  you  wore  at  the  ball  was 
made  in  a  plaster  mould  taken  off  the  face  of  my  brother's  statue  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  that." 

"  My  brother  has  just  returned  to  his  studio ;  has  found  a  morsel 
of  the  plaster  I  used  for  the  mould  sticking  in  the  hair  of  the  statue ; 
and  has  asked  me,  as  the  person  left  in  charge  of  his  work-rooms,  for 
an  explanation.  Such  an  explanation  as  I  could  offer  has  not  satisfied 
him,  and  he  talks  of  making  further  inquiries.  Considering  that 
it  will  be  used  no  more,  I  think  it  safest  to  destroy  the  wax  mask ; 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  285 

and  I  asked  you  to  bring  it  here,  that  I  might  see  it  burned  or 
broken  ui>  with  my  own  eyes.  Now  you  know  all  you  wanted  to 
know  ;  and  now,  therefore,  it  is  my  turn  to  remind  you  that  I  have 
not  yet  hud  n  direct  answer  to  the  first  question  I  addressed  to  you 
when  we  met  here.  Have  you  brought  the  wax  mask  with  you,  or 
have  you  not  ?" 

''  I  have  not." 

-And  why?" 

Just  as  that  question  was  put,  Nanina  felt  the  dog  dragging  him- 
self free  of  her  grasp  on  his  mouth.  She  had  been  listening  hith- 
erto with  such  painful  intensity,  with  such  all-absorbing  emotions 
of  suspense,  terror,  and  astonishment,  that  she  had  not  noticed  his 
efforts  to  get  away,  and  had  continued  mechanically  to  hold  his 
mouth  shut.  But  now  she  was  aroused  by  the  violence  of  his  strug- 
gles to  the  knowledge  that,  unless  she  hit  upon  some  new  means  of 
quieting  him,  he  would  have  his  mouth  free,  and  would  betray  her 
by  a  growl. 

In  an  agony  of  apprehension  lest  she  should  lose  a  word  of  the 
momentous  conversation,  she  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  appeal  to 
the  dog's  fondness  for  her,  by  suddenly  flinging  both  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  kissing  his  rough,  hairy  cheek.  The  stratagem  suc- 
ceeded. Scanunmuccia  had,  for  many  years  past,  never  received  any 
greater  marks  of  his  mistress's  kindness  for  him  than  such  as  a  pat 
on  the  head  or  a  present  of  a  lump  of  sugar  might  convey.  His 
dog's  nature  was  utterly  confounded  by  the  unexpected  warmth  of 
Nanina's  earess,  and  he  struggled  up  vigorously  in  her  arms  to  try 
and  return  it  by  licking  her  face.  She  could  easily  prevent  him 
from  doing  this,  and  could  so  gain  a  few  minutes  more  to  listen  be- 
hind the  summer-house  without  danger  of  discovery. 

She  had  lost  Brigida's  answer  to  Father  Rocco's  question;  but 
she  was  in  time  to  hear  her  next  words. 

••  \Ve  are  alone  here,"  said  Brigida.  "I  am  a  woman,  and  I  don't 
know  that  you  may  not  have  come  armed.  It  is  only  the  common- 
est precaution  on  my  part  not  to  give  you  a  chance  of  getting  at 
the  wax  mask  till  I  have  made  my  conditions." 

"  You  never  said  a  word  about  conditions  before." 

"True.  I  remember  telling  you  that  I  wanted  nothing  but  the 
novelty  of  going  to  the  masquerade  in  the  character  of  my  dead  en- 
emy, and  the  luxury  of  being  able  to  terrify  the  man  who  had  bru- 
tally ridiculed  me  in  old  days  in  the  studio.  That  was  the  truth. 
But  it  is  not  the  less  the  truth  that  our  experiment  on  Count  Fabio 
has  detained  me  in  this  city  much  longer  than  I  ever  intended,  that 
I  am  all  but  penniless,  and  that  I  deserve  to  be  paid.  In  plaiq 
words,  will  you  buy  the  mask  of  me  for  two  hundred  scudi  ?" 

"  I  have  not  twenty  scudi  in  the  world,  at  my  own  free  disposal." 


286  AFTER  DARK. 

"  You  must  find  two  hundred  if  you  want  the  wax  mask.  I  don't 
wish  to  threaten — -but  money  I  must  have.  I  mention  the  sum  of 
two  hundred  scudi,  because  that  is  the  exact  amount  offered  in  the 
public  handbills  by  Count  Fabio's  friends  for  the  discovery  of  the 
woman  who  wore  the  yellow  mask  at  the  Marquis  Melani's  ball. 
What  have  I  to  do  but  to  earn  that  money  if  I  please,  by  going  to 
the  palace,  taking  the  wax  mask  with  me,  and  telling  them  that  I 
am  the  woman.  Suppose  I  confess  in  that  way ;  they  can  do  noth- 
ing to  hurt  me,  and  I  should  be  two  hundred  scudi  the  richer.  You 
might  be  injured,  to  be  sure,  if  they  insisted  on  knowing  who  made 
the  wax  model,  and  who  suggested  the  ghastly  disguise — 

"  Wretch !  do  you  believe  that  my  character  could  be  injured  on 
the  unsupported  evidence  of  any  words  from  your  lips  ?" 

"  Father  Rocco,  for  the  first  time  since  I  have  enjoyed  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  acquaintance,  I  find  you  committing  a  breach  of  good 
manners.  I  shall  leave  you  until  you  become  more  like  yourself. 
If  you  wish  to  apologize  for  calling  me  a  wretch,  and  if  you  want 
to  secure  the  wax  mask,  honor  me  with  a  visit  before  four  o'clock 
this  afternoon,  and  bring  two  hundred  scudi  with  you.  Delay  till 
after  four,  and  it  will  be  too  late." 

An  instant  of  silence  followed ;  and  then  Nanina  judged  that 
Brigida  must  be  departing,  for  she  heard  the  rustling  of  a  dress  on 
the  lawn  in  front  of  the  summer-house.  Unfortunately,  Scaram- 
muccia  heard  it  too.  He  twisted  himself  round  in  her  arms  and 
growled. 

The  noise  disturbed  Father  Rocco.  She  heard  him  rise  and  leave 
the  summer-house.  There  would  have  been  time  enough,  perhaps, 
for  her  to  conceal  herself  among  some  trees  if  she  could  have  recov- 
ered her  self-possession  at  once ;  but  she  was  incapable  of  making 
an  effort  to  regain  it.  She  could  neither  think  nor  move — her  breath 
seemed  to  die  away  on  her  lips — as  she  saw  the  shadow  of  the  priest 
stealing  over  the  grass  slowly  from  the  front  to  the  back  of  the  sum- 
mer-house. In  another  moment  they  were  face  to  face. 

He  stopped  a  few  paces  from  her,  and  eyed  her  steadily  in  dead 
silence.  She  still  crouched  against  the  summer-house,  and  still  with 
one  hand  mechanically  kept  her  hold  of  the  dog.  It  was  well  for 
the  priest  that  she  did  so.  Scarammuccia's  formidable  teeth  were 
in  full  view,  his  shaggy  coat  was  bristling,  his  eyes  were  starting, 
his  growl  had  changed  from  the  surly  to  the  savage  note ;  he  was 
ready  to  tear  down,  not  Father  Rocco  only,  but  all  the  clergy  in 
Pisa,  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"  You  have  been  listening,"  said  the  priest,  calmly.  "  I  see  it  in 
your  face.  You  have  heard  all." 

She  could  not  answer  a  word ;  she  could  not  take  her  eyes  from 
him.  There  was  an  unnatural  stillness  in  his  face,  a  steady,  unre- 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  287 

pentant,  unfathomable  despair  in  his  eyes  that  struck  her  with  hor- 
ror. She  would  have  given  worlds  to  be  able  to  rise  to  her  feet  and 
tly  from  his  presence. 

"  I  once  distrusted  you  and  watched  you  in  secret,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing after  a  short  silence,  thoughtfully,  and  with  a  strange,  tranquil 
sadness  in  his  voice.  "  And  now,  what  I  did  by  you,  you  do  by  me. 
You  put  the  hope  of  your  life  once  in  my  hands.  Is  it  because  they 
were  not  worthy  of  the  trust  that  discovery  and  ruin  overtake  me, 
and  that  you  are  the  instrument  of  the  retribution  ?  Can  this  be  the 
decree  of  Heaven — or  is  it  nothing  but  the  blind  justice  of  chance  ?" 

He  looked  upward,  doubtingly,  to  the  lustrous  sky  above  him, 
and  sighed.  Nanina's  eyes  still  followed  his  mechanically.  He 
seemed  to  feel  their  influence,  for  he  suddenly  looked  down  at  her 
again. 

"  What  keeps  you  silent  ?  Why  are  you  afraid  ?"  he  said.  "  I 
can  do  you  no  harm,  with  your  dog  at  your  side,  and  the  workmen 
yonder  within  call.  I  can  do  you  no  harm,  and  I  wish  to  do  you 
none.  Go  back  to  Pisa ;  tell  what  you  have  heard,  restore  the  man 
you  love  to  himself,  and  ruin  me.  That  is  your  work ;  do  it !  I  was 
never  your  enemy,  even  when  I  distrusted  you.  I  am  not  your  ene- 
my now.  It  is  no  fault  of  yours  that  a  fatality  has  been  accomplish- 
ed through  you — no  fault  of  yours  that  I  am  rejected  as  the  instru- 
ment of  securing  a  righteous  restitution  to  the  Church.  Rise,  child, 
and  go  your  way,  while  I  go  mine,  and  prepare  for  what  is  to  come. 
If  we  never  meet  again,  remember  that  I  parted  from  you  without 
one  hard  saying  or  one  harsh  look — parted  from  you  so,  knowing 
that  the  first  words  you  speak  in  Pisa  will  be  death  to  my  charac- 
ter, and  destruction  to  the  great  purpose  of  my  life." 

Speaking  these  words,  always  with  the  same  calmness  which  had 
marked  his  manner  from  the  first,  he  looked  fixedly  at  her  for  a  lit- 
tle while,  sighed  again,  and  turned  away.  Just  before  he  disap- 
peared among  the  trees,  he  said  "  Farewell,"  but  so  softly  that  she 
could  barely  hear  it.  Some  strange  confusion  clouded  her  mind  as 
she  lost  sight  of  him.  Had  she  injured  him,  or  had  he  injured  her? 
His  words  bewildered  and  oppressed  her  simple  heart.  Vague 
doubts  and  fears,  and  a  sudden  antipathy  to  remaining  any  long- 
er near  the  summer-house,  overcame  her.  She  started  to  her  feet, 
and,  keeping  the  dog  still  at  her  side,  hurried  from  the  garden  to 
the  high-road.  There,  the  wide  glow  of  sunshine,  the  sight  of  the 
city  lying  before  her,  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  and  di- 
rected them  all  to  Fabio  and  to  the  future. 

A  burning  impatience  to  be  back  in  Pisa  now  possessed  her.  She 
hastened  toward  the  city  at  her  utmost  speed.  The  doctor  was  re- 
ported to  be  in  the  palace  when  she  passed  the  servants  lounging 
in  the  court-yard.  He  saw,  the  moment  she  came  into  his  presence, 


288  AFTER   DARK. 

that  something  had  happened,  and  led  her  away  from  the  sick-room 
into  Fabio's  empty  study.  There  she  told  him  all. 

"  You  have  saved  him,"  said  the  doctor,  joyfully.  "  I  will  answer 
for  his  recovery.  Only  let  that  woman  come  here  for  the  reward ; 
and  leave  me  to  deal  with  her  as  she  deserves.  In  the  mean  time, 
my  dear,  don't  go  away  from  the  palace  on  any  account  until  I  give 
you  permission.  I  am  going  to  send  a  message  immediately  to  Sign- 
or  Andrea  d'Arbino  to  come  and  hear  the  extraordinary  disclosure 
that  you  have  made  to  me.  Go  back  to  read  to  the  count,  as  usual, 
until  I  want  you  again ;  but,  remember,  you  must  not  drop  a  word 
to  him  yet  of  what  you  have  said  to  me.  He  must  be  carefully  pre- 
pared for  all  that  we  have  to  tell  him ;  and  must  be  kept  quite  in 
the  dark  until  those  preparations  are  made." 

D'Arbino  answered  the  doctor's  summons  in  person  ;  and  Nanina 
repeated  her  story  to  him.  He  and  the  doctor  remained  closeted 
together  for  some  time  after  she  had  concluded  her  narrative  and 
had  retired.  A  little  before  four  o'clock  they  sent  for  her  again  into 
the  study.  The  doctor  was  sitting  by  the  table  with  a  bag  of  money 
before  him,  and  D'Arbino  was  telling  one  of  the  servants  that  if  a 
lady  called  at  the  palace  on  the  subject  of  the  handbill  which  he 
had  circulated,  she  was  to  be  admitted  into  the  study  immediately. 

As  the  clock  struck  four  Nanina  was  requested  to  take  possession 
of  a  window-seat,  and  to  wait  there  until  she  was  summoned.  When 
she  had  obeyed,  the  doctor  loosened  one  of  the  window-curtains,  to 
hide  her  from  the  View  of  any  one  entering  the  room. 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed,  and  then  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Brigida  herself  was  shown  into  the  study.  The 
doctor  bowed,  and  D'Arbino  placed  a  chair  for  her.  She  was  per- 
fectly collected,  and  thanked  them  for  their  politeness  with  her  best 
grace. 

"I  believe  I  am  addressing  confidential  friends  of  Count  Fabio 
d'Ascoli  ?"  Brigida  began.  "  May  I  ask  if  you  are  authorized  to  act 
for  the  count,  in  relation  to  the  reward  which  this  handbill  offers  ?" 

The  doctor,  having  examined  the  handbill,  said  that  the  lady  was 
quite  right,  and  pointed  significantly  to  the  bag  of  money. 

"  You  are  prepared,  then,"  pursued  Brigida,  smiling, "  to  give  a 
reward  of  two  hundred  scudi  to  any  one  able  to  tell  you  who  the 
woman  is  who  wore  the  yellow  mask  at  the  Marquis  Melani's  ball, 
and  how  she  contrived  to  personate  the  face  and  figure  of  the  late 
Countess  D'Ascoli  ?" 

"  Of  course  we  are  prepared,"  answered  D'Arbino,  a  little  irrita- 
bly. "  As  men  of  honor,  we  are  not  in  the  habit  of  promising  any 
thing  that  we  are  not  perfectly  willing,  under  proper  conditions,  to 
perform." 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  doctor;  "I  think  you 


THE    YELLOW    MASK.  289 

sprak  a  little  too  warmly  to  the  lady.  She  is  quite  right  to  take 
every  precaution.  We  have  the  two  hundred  scudi  here,  madam," 
he  continued,  putting  the  money-bag;  "and  we  are  prepared  to  pay 
that  sum  for  the  information  we  want.  But "  (here  the  doctor  sus- 
piciously moved  the  bag  of  scudi  from  the  table  to  his  lap)  "  we 
must  have  pre^fs  *hat  the  person  claiming  the  reward  is  really  en- 
titled to  it." 

Brigida's  eyes  followed  the  money-bag  greedily. 

u  Proofs !''  she  exclaimed,  taking  a  small  flat  box  from  under  her 
cloak,  and  pushing  it  across  to  the  doctor.  "  Proofs  !  there  you  will 
find  one  proof  that  establishes  my  claim  beyond  the  possibility  of 
doubt" 

The  doctor  opened  the  box,  and  looked  at  the  wax  mask  inside 
it ;  then  handed  it  to  D'Arbino,  and  replaced  the  bag  of  scudi  on 
the  table. 

"  The  contents  of  that  box  seem  certainly  to  explain  a  great  deal," 
he  said,  pushing  the  bag  gently  toward  Brigida,  but  always  keeping 
his  hand  over  it.  "  The  woman  who  wore  the  yellow  domino  was, 
I  presume,  of  the  same  height  as  the  late  countess  ?" 

"  Exactly,"  said  Brigida.  "  Her  eyes  were  also  of  the  same  color 
as  the  late  countess's ;  she  wore  yellow  of  the  same  shade  as  the 
hangings  in  the  late  countess's  room,  and  she  had  on,  under  her  yel- 
low mask,  the  colorless  wax  model  of  the  late  countess's  face,  now 
in  your  friend's  hand.  So  much  for  that  part  of  the  secret.  Noth- 
ing remains  now  to  be  cleared  up  but  the  mystery  of  who  the  lady 
was.  Have  the  goodness,  sir,  to  push  that  bag  an  inch  or  two  near- 
er my  way,  and  I  shall  be  delighted  to  tell  you." 

"  Thank  you,  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  very  perceptible 
change  in  his  manner.  "  We  know  who  the  lady  was  already." 

He  moved  the  bag  of  scudi  while  he  spoke  back  to  his  own  side 
of  the 'table.  Brigida's  cheeks  reddened,  and  she  rose  from  her 
seat. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  sir,"  she  said,  haughtily,  "  that  you  take 
advantage  of  my  position  here,  as  a  defenseless  woman,  to  cheat  me 
out  of  the  reward  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  madam,"  rejoined  the  doctor.  "  We  have  cove- 
nanted to  pay  the  reward  to  the  person  who  could  give  us  the  in- 
formation we  required." 

"  Well,  sir !  have  I  not  given  you  part  of  it  ?  And  am  I  not  pre- 
pared to  give  you  the  whole  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  but  the  misfortune  is,  that  another  person  has  been 
beforehand  with  you.  We  ascertained  who  the  lady  in  the  yellow 
domino  was,  and  how  she  contrived  to  personate  the  face  of  the  late 
Countess  D'Ascoli,  several  hours  ago,  from  another  informant.  That 
person  has  consequently  the  prior  claim ;  and,  on  every  principle  of 

12* 


290  AFTER   DARK. 

justice,  that  person  must  also  have  the  reward.  Nanina,  this  bag 
belongs  to  you — come  and  take  it." 

Nanina  appeared  from  the  window-seat.  Brigida,  thunder-struck, 
looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment ;  gasped  out,  "  That  girl !" — 
then  stopped  again,  breathless. 

"  That  girl  was  at  the  back  of  the  summer-house  this  morning, 
while  you  and  your  accomplice  were  talking  together,"  said  the 
doctor. 

D'Arbino  had  been  watching  Brigida's  face  intently  from  the  mo- 
ment of  Nanina's  appearance,  and  had  quietly  stolen  close  to  her 
side.  This  was  a  fortunate  movement;  for  the  doctor's  last  words 
were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  before  Brigida  seized  a  heavy  ruler 
lying,  with  some  writing  materials,  on  the  table.  In  another  in- 
stant, if  D'Arbino  had  not  caught  her  arm,  she  would  have  hurled  it 
at  Nanina's  head. 

"  You  may  let  go  your  hold,  sir,"  she  said,  dropping  the  ruler, 
and  turning  toward  D'Arbino  with  a  smile  on  her  white  lips  and  a 
wicked  calmness  in  her  steady  eyes.  "I  can  wait  for  a  better  op- 
portunity." 

With  those  words  she  walked  to  the  door;  and,  turning  round 
there,  regarded  Nanina  fixedly. 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  a  moment  quicker  with  the  ruler,"  she  said, 
and  went  out. 

"  There !"  exclaimed  the  doctor;  "  I  told  you  I  knew  how  to  deal 
with  her  as  she  deserved.  One  thing  I  am  certainly  obliged  to  her 
for — she  has  saved  us  the  trouble  of  going  to  her  house  and  forcing 
her  to  give  up  the  mask.  And  now,  my  child,"  he  continued,  ad- 
dressing Nanina,  "  you  can  go  home,  and  one  of  the  men-servants 
shall  see  you  safe  to  your  own  door,  in  case  that  woman  should  still 
be  lurking  about  the  palace.  Stop  !  you  are  leaving  the  bag  of  scudi 
behind  you." 

"  I  can't  take  it,  sir." 

"And  why  not?" 

"She  would  have  taken  money !"  Saying  those  words,  Nanina 
reddened,  and  looked  toward  the  door. 

The  doctor  glanced  approvingly  at  D'Arbino.  "  Well,  well,  we 
won't  argue  about  that  now,"  he  said.  "  I  will  lock  up  the  money 
with  the  mask  for  to-day.  Come  here  to-morrow  morning  as  usual, 
my  dear.  By  that  time  I  shall  have  made  up  my  mind  on  the  right 
means  for  breaking  your  discovery  to  Count  Fabio.  Only  let  us 
proceed  slowly  and  cautiously,  and  I  answer  for  success." 


THE    YKJLLOW   MASK.  291 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE  next  morning,  among  the  first  visitors  at  the  Ascoli  Palace 
was  the  master -sculptor,  Luca  Lomi.  He  seemed,  as  the  servants 
thought,  agitated,  and  said  he  was  especially  desirous  of  seeing 
Count  Fabio.  On  being  informed  that  this  was  impossible,  he  re- 
flected a  little,  and  then  inquired  if  the  medical  attendant  of  the 
count  was  at  the  palace,  and  could  be  spoken  with.  Both  questions 
were  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  he  was  ushered  into  the  doc- 
tor's presence. 

"I  know  not  how  to  preface  what  I  want  to  say,"  Luca  began, 
looking  about  him  confusedly.  "  May  I  ask  you,  in  the  first  place,* 
if  the  work-girl  named  Nanina  was  here  yesterday  ?" 

"  She  was,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Did  she  speak  in  private  with  any  one  ?"  ' 

"  Yes ;  with  me." 

"Then  you  know  every  thing?" 

"Absolutely  every  thing." 

"  I  am  glad  at  least  to  find  that  my  object  in  wishing  to  see  the 
count  can  be  equally  well  answered  by  seeing  you.  My  brother,  I 
regret  to  say —  He  stopped  perplexedly,  and  drew  from  his  pock- 
et a  roll  of  papers. 

"  You  may  speak  of  your  brother  in  the  plainest  terms,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  I  know  what  share  he  has  had  in  promoting  the  infamous 
conspiracy  of  the  Yellow  Mask." 

"My  petition  to  you,  and  through  you  to  the  count,  is,  that  your 
knowledge  of  what  my  brother  h«s  done  may  go  no  further.  If 
this  scandal  becomes  public  it  will  ruin  me  in  my  profession.  And 
I  make  little  enough  by  it  already,"  said  Luca,  with  his  old  sordid 
smile  breaking  out  again  faintly  on  his  face. 

"  Pray,  do  you  come  from  your  brother  with  this  petition  ?"  in- 
quired the  doctor. 

"No;  I  come  solely  on  my  own  account.  My  brother  seems 
careless  what  happens.  He  has  made  a  full  statement  of  his  share 
in  the  matter  from  the  first;  has  forwarded  it  to  his  ecclesiastical 
superior  (who  will  send  it  to  the  archbishop),  and  is  now  awaiting 
whatever  sentence  they  choose  to  pass  on  him.  I  have  a  copy  of 
tlu-  document,  to  prove  that  he  has  at  least  been  candid,  and  that 
he  does  not  shrink  from  consequences  which  he  might  have  avoided 
by  flight.  The  law  can  not  touch  him,  but  the  Church  can — and  to 
the  Church  he  has  confessed.  All  I  ask  is,  that  he  may  be  spared  a 


292  AFTER   DARK. 

public  exposure.  Such  an  exposure  would  do  no  good  to  the  count, 
and  it  would  do  dreadful  injury  to  me.  Look  over  the  papers  your- 
self, and  show  them,  whenever  you  think  proper,  to  the  master  of 
this  house.  I  have  every  confidence  in  his  honor  and  kindness,  and 
in  yours." 

He  laid  the  roll  of  papers  open  on  the  table,  and  then  retired  with 
great  humility  to  the  window.  The  doctor  looked  over  them  with 
some  curiosity. 

The  statement  or  confession  began  by  boldly  avowing  the  writer's 
conviction  that  part  of  the  property  which  the  Count  Fabio  d'Ascoli 
had  inherited  from  his  ancestors  had  been  obtained  by  fraud  and 
misrepresentation  from  the  Church.  The  various  authorities  on 
which  this  assertion  was  based  were  then  produced  in  due  order; 
along  with  some  curious  particles  of  evidence  culled  from  old  man- 
uscripts, which  it  must  have  cost  much  trouble  to  collect  and  de- 
>  cipher. 

The  second  section  was  devoted,  at  great  length,  to  the  reasons 
which  induced  the  writer  to  think  it  his  absolute  duty,  as  an  affec- 
tionate son  and  faithful  servant  of  the  Church,  not  to  rest  until  he 
had  restored  to  the  successors  of  the  apostles  in  his  day  the  property 
which  had  been  fraudulently  taken  from  them  in  days  gone  by. 
The  writer  held  himself  justified,  in  the  last  resort,  and  in  that  only, 
in  using  any  means  for  effecting  this  restoration,  except  such  as 
might  involve  him  in  mortal  sin. 

The  third  section  described  the  priest's  share  in  promoting  the 
marriage  of  Maddalena  Lomi  with  Fabio ;  and  the  hopes  he  enter- 
tained of  securing  the  restitution  of  the  Church  property  through 
his  influence  over  his  niece,  in  the  first  place,  and,  when  she  had 
died,  through  his  influence  over  her  child,  in  the  second.  The 
necessary  failure  of  all  his  projects,  if  Fabio  married  again,  was 
next  glanced  at;  and  the  time  at  which  the  first  suspicion  of  the 
possible  occurrence  of  this  catastrophe  occurred  to  his  mind  was 
noted  with  scrupulous  accuracy.- 

The  fourth  section  narrated  the  manner  in  which  the  conspiracy 
of  the  Yellow  Mask  had  originated.  The  writer  described  himself 
as  being  in  his  brother's  studio  on  the  night  of  his  niece's  death, 
harassed  by  forebodings  of  the  likelihood  of  Fabio's  marrying 
again,  and  filled  with  the  resolution  to  prevent  any  such  disastrous 
second  union  at  all  hazards.  He  asserted  that  the  idea  of  taking 
the  wax  mask  from  his  brother's  statue  flashed  upon  him  on  a  sud- 
den, and  that  he  knew  of  nothing  to  lead  to  it,  except,  perhaps, 
that  he  had  been  thinking  just  before  of  the  superstitious  nature  of 
the  young  man's  character,  as  he  had  himself  observed  it  in  the 
studio.  He  further  declared  that  the  idea  of  the  wax  mask  terrified 
him  at  first ;  that  he  strove  against  it  as  against  a  temptation  of  the 


THE   YELLOW   MASK.  293 

devil ;  that,  from  fear  of  yielding  to  this  temptation,  he  abstained 
even  from  entering  the  studio  during  his  brother's  absence  at  Na- 
ples, and  that  he  first  faltered  in  his  good  resolution  when  Fabio 
returned  to  Pisa,  and  when  it  was  rumored,  not  only  that  the  young 
nobleman  was  going  to  the  ball,  but  that  he  would  certainly  marry 
for  the  second  time. 

The  fifth  section  related  that  the  writer,  upon  this,  yielded  to 
temptation  rather  than  forego  the  cherished  purpose  of  his  life  by 
allowing  Fabio  a  chance  of  marrying  again — that  he  made  the  wax 
mask- in  a  plaster  mould  taken  from  the  face  of  his  brother's  statue 
— and  that  he  then  had  two  separate  interviews  with  a  woman 
named  Brigida  (of  whom  he  had  some  previous  knowledge),  who 
was  ready  and  anxious,  from  motives  of  private  malice,  to  personate 
the  deceased  countess  at  the  masquerade.  This  woman  had  sug- 
gested that  some  anonymous  letters  to  Fabio  would  pave  the  way 
in  his  mind  for  the  approaching  impersonation,  and  had  written  the 
letters  herself.  However,  even  when  all  the  preparations  were 
made,  the  writer  declared  that  he  shrank  from  proceeding  to  ex- 
tremities; and  that  he  would  have  abandoned  the  whole  project 
but  for  the  woman  Brigida  informing  him  one  day  that  a  work-girl 
named  Nanina  was  to  be  one  of  the  attendants  at  the  ball.  He 
knew  the  count  to  have  been  in  love  with  this  girl,  even  to  the 
point  of  wishing  to  marry  her;  he  suspected  that  her  engagement 
to  wait  at  the  ball  was  preconcerted ;  and,  in  consequence,  he  au- 
thorized his  female  accomplice  to  perform  her  part  in  the  con- 
spiracy. 

The  sixth  section  detailed  the  proceedings  at  the  masquerade, 
and  contained  the  writer's  confession  that,  on  the  night  before  it, 
he  had  written  to  the  count  proposing  the  reconciliation  of  a  differ- 
ence that  had  taken  place  between  them,  solely  for  the  purpose  of 
guarding  himself  against  suspicion.  He  next  acknowledged  that 
he  had  borrowed  the  key  of  the  Campo  Santo  gate,  keeping  the  au- 
thority to  whom  it  was  intrusted  in  perfect  ignorance  of  the  purpose 
for  which  he  wanted  it.  That  purpose  was  to  carry  out  the  ghast- 
ly delusion  of  the  wax  mask  (in  the  very  probable  event  of  the 
wearer  being  followed  and  inquired  after)  by  having  the  woman 
Brigida  taken  up  and  set  down  at  the  gate  of  the  cemetery  in  which 
Fabio's  wife  had  been  buried. 

The  seventh  section  solemnly  averred  that  the  sole  object  of  the 
conspiracy  was  to  prevent  the  young  nobleman  from  marrying  again, 
by  working  on  his  superstitious  fears ;  the  writer  repeating,  after  this 
avowal,  that  any  such  second  marriage  would  necessarily  destroy  his 
project  for  promoting  the  ultimate  restoration  of  the  Church  posses- 
sions, by  diverting  Count  Fabio's  property,  in  great  part,  from  his 
first  wife's  child,  over  whom  the  priest  would  always  have  influence, 


294  AFTER   DARK. 

to  another  wife  and  probably  other  children,  over  whom  he  could 
hope  to  have  none. 

The  eighth  and  last  section  expressed  the  writer's  contrition  for 
having  allowed  his  zeal  for  the  Church  to  mislead  him  into  actions 
liable  to  bring  scandal  on  his  cloth ;  reiterated  in  the  strongest  lan- 
guage his  conviction  that,  whatever  might  be  thought  of  the  means 
employed,  the  end  he  had  proposed  to  himself  was  a  most  righteous 
one  •  and  concluded  by  asserting  his  resolution  to  suffer  with  humil- 
ity any  penalties,  however  severe,  which  his  ecclesiastical  superiors 
might  think  fit  to  inflict  on  him. 

Having  looked  over  this  extraordinary  statement,  the  doctor  ad- 
dressed himself  again  to  Luca  Lomi. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  he  said,  "that  no  useful  end  is  to  be  gained 
now  by  mentioning  your  brother's  conduct  in  public — always  pro- 
vided, however,  that  his  ecclesiastical  superiors  do  their  duty.  I 
shall  show  these  papers  to  the  count  as  soon  as  he  is  fit  to  peruse 
them,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  will  be  ready  to  take  my  view 
of  the  matter." 

This  assurance  relieved  Luca  Lomi  of  a  great  weight  of  anxiety. 
He  bowed  and  withdrew. 

The  doctor  placed  the  papers  in  the  same  cabinet  in  which  he  had 
secured  the  wax  mask.  Before  he  locked  the  doors  again  he  took 
out  the  flat  box,  opened  it,  and  looked  thoughtfully  for  a  few  min- 
utes at  the  mask  inside,  then  sent  for  Nanina. 

"  Now,  my  child,"  he  said,  when  she  appeared,  "  I  am  going  to 
try  our  first  experiment  with  Count  Fabio ;  and  I  think  it  of  great 
importance  that  you  should  be  present  while  I  speak  to  him." 

He  took  up  the  box  with  the  mask  in  it,  and  beckoning  to  Nanina 
to  follow  him,  led  the  way  to  Fabio's  chamber. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ABOUT  six  months  after  the  events  already  related,  Signer  Andrea 
d'Arbino  and  the  Cavaliere  Finello  happened  to  be  staying  with  a 
friend,  in  a  sea-side  villa  on  the  Castellamare  shore  of  the  bay  of 
Naples.  Most  of  their  time  was  pleasantly  occupied  on  the  sea,  in 
fishing  and  sailing.  A  boat  was  placed  entirely  at  their  disposal. 
Sometimes  they  loitered  whole  days  along  the  shore;  sometimes 
made  trips  to  the  lovely  islands  in  the  bay. 

One  evening  they  were  sailing  near  Sorrento,  with  a  light  wind. 
The  beauty  of  the  coast  tempted  them  to  keep  the  boat  close  in- 
shore. A  short  time  before  sunset,  they  rounded  the  most  pictur- 
esque headland  they  had  yet  passed ;  and  a  little  bay,  with  a  white- 
sand  beach,  opened  on  their  view.  They  noticed  first  a  villa  sur- 


THE    YELLOW   MASK. 

rounded  by  orange  and  olive  trees  on  the  rocky  heights  inland; 
then  a  path  in  the  cliff-side  leading  down  to  the  sands ;  then  a  lit- 
tle family  party  on  the  beach,  enjoying  the  fragrant  evening  air. 

The  elders  of  the  group  were  a  lady  and  gentleman,  sitting  to- 
grther  on  the  sand.  The  lady  had  a  guitar  in  her  lap,  and  was 
playing  a  simple  dance  melody.  Close  at  her  side  a  young  child 
was  rolling  on  the  beach  in  high  glee ;  in  front  of  her  a  little  girl 
was  dancing  to  the  music,  with  a  very  extraordinary  partner  in  the 
shape  of  a  dog,  who  was  capering  on  his  hind  legs  in  the  most  gro- 
tesque manner.  The  merry  laughter  of  the  girl,  and  the  lively  notes 
of  the  guitar  were  heard  distinctly  across  the  still  water. 

"  Edge  a  little  nearer  inshore,"  said  D'Arbino  to  his  friend,  who 
was  steering ;  "  and  keep  as  I  do  in  the  shadow  of  the  sail.  I  want 
to  see  the  faces  of  those  persons  on  the  beach  without  being  seen  by 
them." 

Finello  obeyed.  After  approaching  just  near  enough  to  see  the 
countenances  of  the  party  on  shore,  and  to  be  barked  at  lustily  by 
the  dog,  they  turned  the  boat's  head  again  toward  the  offing. 

'•  A  pleasant  voyage,  gentlemen,"  cried  the  clear  voice  of  the  little 
girl.  They  waved  their  hats  in  return  ;  and  then  saw  her  run  to  the 
dog  and  take  him  by  the  fore  legs.  "  Play,  Nanina,"  they  heard  her 
say.  "  I  have  not  half  done  with  my  partner  yet."  The  guitar 
sounded  once  more,  and  the  grotesque  dog  was  on  his  hind  legs  in 
;i  moment. 

- 1  hud  heard  that  he  was  well  again,  that  he  had  married  her 
lately,  and  that  he  was  away  with  her  and  her  sister,  and  his  child 
by  the  first  wife," said  D'Arbino;  "but  I  had  no  suspicion  that  their 
place  of  retirement  was  so  near  us.  It  is  too  soon  to  break  in  upon 
their  happiness,  or  I  should  have  felt  inclined  to  run  the  boat  on 
shore." 

"  I  never  heard  the  end  of  that  strange  adventure  of  the  Yellow 
Mask,"  said  Finello.  "  There  was  a  priest  mixed  up  in  it,  was  there 
not  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  nobody  seems  to  know  exactly  what  has  become  of  him. 
He  was  sent  for  to  Rome,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  One 
report  is,  that  he  has  been  condemned  to  some  mysterious  penal  se- 
clusion by  his  ecclesiastical  superiors — another,  that  he  has  volun- 
teered, as  a  sort  of  Forlorn  Hope,  to  accept  a  colonial  curacy  among 
rough  people,  and  in  a  pestilential  climate.  I  asked  his  brother,  the 
sculptor,  about  him  a  little  while  ago,  but  he  only  shook  his  head, 
and  said  nothing." 

"  And  the  woman  who  wore  the  yellow  mask  ?" 

"  She,  too,  has  ended  mysteriously.  At  Pisa  she  was  obliged  to 
sell  off  every  thing  she  possessed  to  pay  her  debts.  Some  friends 
of  hers  at  a  milliner's  shop,  to  whom  she  applied  for  help,  would 


296  AFTER    DARK. 

have  nothing  to  do  with  her.  She  left  the  city,  alone  and  penni- 
less." 

The  boat  had  approached  the  next  headland  on  the  coast  while 
they  were  talking.  They  looked  back  for  a  last  glance  at  the  beach. 
Still  the  notes  of  the  guitar  came  gently  across  the  quiet  water; 
but  there  mingled  with  them  now  the  sound  of  the  lady's  voice. 
She  was  singihg.  The  little  girl  and  the  dog  were  at  her  feet,  and 
the  gentleman  was  still  in  his  old  place  close  at  her  side. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  the  boat  rounded  the  next  headland,  the 
beach  vanished  from  view,  and  the  music  died  away  softly  in  the 
distance. 


LAST  LEAVES   FROM   LEAil's  DIABY.  297 


LAST  LEAVES  FROM  LEAH'S  DIARY. 

3d  of  June. — Our  stories  are  ended :  our  pleasant  work  is  done. 
It  is  a  lovely  summer  afternoon.  The  great  hall  at  the  farm-house, 
after  having  been  filled  with  people,  is  now  quite  deserted.  I  sit 
alone  at  my  little  work-table,  with  rather  a  crying  sensation  at  my 
heart,  ;ind  with  the  pen  trembling  in  my  fingers,  as  if  I  was  an  old 
woman  already.  Our  manuscript  has  been  sealed  up  and  taken 
away ;  the  one  precious  object  of  all  our  most  anxious  thoughts  for 
months  past — our  third  child,  as  we  have  got  to  call  it — has  gone 
out  from  us  on  this  summer's  day,  to  seek  its  fortune  in  the  world. 

A  little  before  twelve  o'clock  last  night,  my  husband  dictated  to 
me  the  last  words  of  "  The  Yellow  Mask."  I  laid  down  the  pen, 
and  closed  the  paper  thoughtfully.  With  that  simple  action  the 
work  that  we  had  wrought  at  together  so  carefully  and  so  long 
came  to  a  close.  We  were  both  so  silent  and  still,  that  the  mur- 
muring of  the  trees  in  the  night  air  sounded  audibly  and  solemnly 
in  our  room. 

William's  collection  of  stories  has  not,  thus  far,  been  half  exhaust- 
ed yet ;  but  those  who  understand  the  public  taste  and  the  interests 
of  book-selling  better  than  we,  think  it  advisable  not  to  risk  offer- 
ing too  much  to  the  reader  at  first.  If  individual  opinions  can  be 
accepted  as  a  fair  test,  our  prospects  of  success  seem  hopeful.  The 
doctor  (but  we  must  not  forget  that  he  is  a  friend)  was  so  pleased 
with  the  two  specimen  stories  we  sent  to  him,  that  he  took  them  at 
once  to  his  friend,  the  editor  of  the  newspaper,  who  showed  his  ap- 
preciation of  what  he  read  in  a  very  gratifying  manner.  He  pro- 
posed that  William  should  publish  in  the  newspaper,  on  very  fair 
terms,  any  short  anecdotes  and  curious  experiences  of  his  life  as  a 
portrait-painter,  which  might  not  be  important  enough  to  put  into 
a  book.  The  money  which  my  husband  has  gained  from  time  to 
time  in  this  way  has  just  sufficed  to  pay  our  expenses  at  the  farm- 
house up  to  within  the  last  month ;  and  now  our  excellent  friends 
here  say  they  will  not  hear  any  thing  more  from  us  on  the  subject 
of  the  rent  until  the  book  is  sold  and  we  have  plenty  of  money. 
This  is  one  great  relief  and  happiness.  Another,  for  which  I  feel 
even  more  grateful,  is,  that  William's  eyes  have  gained  so  much  by 
their  long  rest,  that  even  the  doctor  is  surprised  at  the  progress  he 
has  made.  He  only  puts  on  his  green  shade  now  when  he  goes  out 
into  the  sun,  or  when  the  candles  are  lit.  His  spirits  are  infinitely 
raised,  and  he  is  beginning  to  talk  already  of  the  time  when  he  will 


298  AFTER  DAKK. 

unpack  his  palette  and  brushes,  and  take  to  his  old  portrait-painting 
occupations  again. 

With  all  these  reasons  for  being  happy,  it  seems  unreasonable  and 
ungracious  in  me  to  be  feeling  sad,  as  I  do  just  at  this  moment.  I 
can  only  say,  in  my  own  justification,  that  it  is  a  mournful  ceremony 
to  take  leave  of  an  old  friend ;  and  I  have  taken  leave  twice  over 
of  the  book  that  has  been  like  an  old  friend  to  me — once  when  I 
had  written  the  last  word  in  it,  and  once  again  when  I  saw  it  carried 
away  to  London. 

I  packed  the  manuscript  up  with  my  own  hands  this  morning,  in 
thick  brown  paper,  wasting  a  great  deal  of  sealing-wax,  I  am  afraid, 
in  my  anxiety  to  keep  the  parcel  from  bursting  open  in  case  it  should 
be  knocked  about  on  its  journey  to  town.  Oh  me,  how  cheap  and 
common  it  looked,  in  its  new  form,  as  I  carried  it  down  stairs !  A 
dozen  pairs  of  worsted  stockings  would  have  made  a  larger  parcel ; 
and  half  a  crown's  worth  of  groceries  would  have  weighed  a  great 
deal  heavier. 

Just  as  we  had  done  dinner  the  doctor  and  the  editor  came  in. 
The  first  had  called  to  fetch  the  parcel  —  I  mean  the  manuscript; 
the  second  had  come  out  with  him  to  Appletreewick  for  a  walk. 
As  soon  as  the  farmer  heard  that  the  book  was  to  be  sent  to  Lon- 
don, he  insisted  that  we  should  drink  success  to  it  all  round.  The 
children,  in  high  glee,  were  mounted  up  on  the  table,  with  a  glass 
of  currant- wine  apiece ;  the  rest  of  us  had  ale ;  the  farmer  proposed 
the  toast,  and  his  sailor  son  led  the  cheers.  We  all  joined  in  (the 
children  included),  except  the  editor — who,  being  the  only  impor- 
tant person  of  the  party,  could  not,  I  suppose,  afford  to  compromise 
his  dignity  by  making  a  noise.  He  was  extremely  polite,  however, 
in  a  lofty  way,  to  me,  waving  his  hand  and  bowing  magnificently 
every  time  he  spoke.  This  discomposed  me  a  little;  and  I  was 
still  more  flurried  when  he  said  that  he  had  written  to  the  London 
publishers  that  very  day,  to  prepare  them  for  the  arrival  of  our 
book. 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  print  it,  sir  ?"  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  may  consider  it  settled,"  said  the  editor, 
confidently.  "  The  letter  is  written — the  thing  is  done.  Look  upon 
the  book  as  published  already ;  pray  oblige  me  by  looking  upon  the 
book  as  published  already." 

"  Then  the  only  uncertainty  now  is  about  how  the  public  will  re- 
ceive it  ?"  said  my  husband,  fidgeting  in  his  chair,  and  looking  nerv- 
ously at  me. 

"  Just  so,  my  dear  sir,  just  so,"  answered  the  editor.  "  Every 
thing  depends  upon  the  public — every  thing,  I  pledge  you  my  word 
of  honor." 

"  Don't  look  doubtful,  Mrs.  Kerby ;  there  isn't  a  doubt  about  it," 


LAST  LEAVES   FROM   LEAH'S   DIARY.  299 

whispered  the  kind  doctor,  giving  the  manuscript  a  confident  smack 
as  he  passed  by  me  with  it  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

In  another  minute  he  and  the  editor,  and  the  poor  cheap-looking 
brown  paper  parcel,  were  gone.  The  others  followed  them  out,  and 
I  was  left  in  the  hall  alone. 

Oh,  Public!  Public  !  it  all  depends  now  upon  you  !  The  children 
are  to  have  new  clothes  from  top  to  toe ;  I  am  to  have  a  black  silk 
gown ;  William  is  to  buy  a  beautiful  traveling  color-box ;  the  rent 
is  to  be  paid ;  all  our  kind  friends  at  the  farm-house  are  to  have  lit- 
tle presents,  and  our  future  way  in  this  hard  world  is  to  be  smooth- 
ed for  us  at  the  outset,  if  you  will  only  accept  a  poor  painter's  sto- 
ries which  his  wife  has  written  down  for  him  After  Dark ! 


MISS  OR  MRS.? 


MISS  OR  MRS.? 


PERSONS  OF  THE  STORY. 

SIR  JOSEPH  GRATBROOKB (Knighf) 

RICHARD  TURLINGTON (Of  the  Levant  Trade) 

LAUNCELOT  LINZIE (Of  the  College  of  Surgeons) 

JAMES  DICAS (Of  the  Soil  of  Attorneys) 

THOMAS  WILDFANG (Superannuated  Seaman) 

Miss  GRATBROOKE (Sir  Joseph's  Sister) 

NATALIE (Sir  Joseph's  Daughter) 

LADY  WINWOOD (Sir  Joseph's  Niece) 

AMELIA       \ 

SOPHIA        >• (Lady  Wimoood's  Stepdaughters) 

DOROTHEA ) 

Itorwd:  THB  PRESENT  TIME.    Place:  ENGLAND. 


FIRST  SCENE. 

AT  SEA. 

THE  night  had  come  to  an  end.  The  new-born  day  waited  for 
its  quickening  light  in  the  silence  that  is  never  known  on  land — 
the  silence  before  sunrise,  in  a  calm  at  sea. 

Not  a  breath  came  from  the  dead  air.  Not  a  ripple  stirred  on  the 
motionless  water.  Nothing  changed  but  the  softly-growing  light; 
nothing  moved  but  the  lazy  mist,  curling  up  to  meet  the  sun,  its 
master,  on  the  eastward  sea.  By  fine  gradations,  the  airy  veil  of 
morning  thinned  in  substance  as  it  rose — thinned,  till  there  dawn- 
ed through  it  in  the  first  rays  of  sunlight  the  tall  white  sails  of  a 
Schooner  Yacht. 

From  stem  to  stern  silence  possessed  the  vessel — as  silence  pos- 
sessed the  sea. 

But  one  living  creature  was  on  deck — the  man  at  the  helm,  dozing 
peaceably  with  his  arm  over  the  useless  tiller.  Minute  by  minute 
the  light  grew,  and  the  heat  grew  with  it ;  and  still  the  helmsman 
slumbered,  the  heavy  sails  hung  noiseless,  the  quiet  water  lay  sleep- 
ing against  the  vessel's  sides.  The  whole  orb  of  the  sun  was  visible 
above  the  water-line,  when  the  first  sound  pierced  its  way  through 
the  morning  silence.  From  far  off  over  the  shining  white  ocean, 


302  MISS   OR  MRS.? 

the  cry  of  a  sea-bird  reached  the  yacht  on  a  sudden  out  of  the  last 
airy  circles  of  the  waning  mist. 

The  sleeper  at  the  helm  woke ;  looked  up  at  the  idle  sails,  and 
yawned  in  sympathy  with  them;  looked  out  at  the  sea  on  either 
side  of  him,  and  shook  his  head  obstinately  at  the  superior  obsti- 
nacy of  the  calm. 

"  Blow,  my  little  breeze !"  said  the  man,  whistling  the  sailor's  in- 
vocation to  the  wind  softly  between  his  teeth.  "  Blow,  my  little 
breeze !" 

"  How's  her  head  ?"  cried  a  bold  and  brassy  voice,  hailing  the  deck 
from  the  cabin  staircase. 

"  Anywhere  you  like,  master ;  all  round  the  compass." 

The  voice  was  followed  by  the  man.  The  owner  of  the  yacht  ap- 
peared on  deck. 

Behold  Richard  Turlington,  Esq.,  of  the  great  Levant  firm  of  Piz- 
zituti,  Turlington,  and  Branca!  Aged  eight-and-thirty ;  standing 
stiffly  and  sturdily  at  a  height  of  not  more  than  five  feet  six — Mr. 
Turlington  presented  to  the  view  of  his  fellow-creatures  a  face  of  the 
perpendicular  order  of  human  architecture.  His  forehead  was  a 
straight  line,  his  upper  lip  was  another,  his  chin  was  the  straightest 
and  the  longest  line  of  all.  As  he  turned  his  swarthy  countenance 
eastward,  and  shaded  his  light  gray  eyes  from  the  sun,  his  knotty 
hand  plainly  revealed  that  it  had  got  him  his  living  by  its  own 
labor  at  one  time  or  another  in  his  life.  Taken  on  the  whole,  this 
was  a  man  whom  it  might  be  easy  to  respect,  but  whom  it  would  be 
hard  to  love.  Better  company  at  the  official  desk  than  at  the  social 
table.  Morally  and  physically — if  the  expression  may  be  permitted 
— a  man  without  a  bend  in  him. 

"  A  calm  yesterday,"  grumbled  Richard  Turlington,  looking  with 
stubborn  deliberation  all  round  him.  "And  a  calm  to-day.  Ha! 
next  season  I'll  have  the  vessel  fitted  with  engines.  I  hate  this !" 

"  Think  of  the  filthy  coals,  and  the  infernal  vibration,  and  leave 
your  beautiful  schooner  as  she  is.  We  are  out  for  a  holiday.  Let 
the  wind  and  the  sea  take  a  holiday  too." 

Pronouncing  those  words  of  remonstrance,  a  slim,  nimble,  curly- 
headed  young  gentleman  joined  Richard  Turlington  on  deck,  with 
his  clothes  under  his  arm,  his  towels  in  his  hand,  and  nothing  on 
him  but  the  night-gown  in  which  he  had  stepped  out  of  his  bed. 

"Launcelot  Linzie,  you  have  been  received  on  board  my  vessel 
in  the  capacity  of  medical  attendant  on  Miss  Natalie  Graybrooke, 
at  her  father's  request.  Keep  your  place,  if  you  please.  When  I 
want  your  advice,  I'll  ask  you  for  it."  Answering  in  those  terms, 
the  elder  man  fixed  his  colorless  gray  eyes  on  the  younger  with  an 
expression  which  added  plainly,  "There  won't  be  room  enough  in 
this  schooner  much  longer  for  me  and  for  you." 


MISS   OR  MBS.  t  303 

Launcelot  Linzie  had  his  reasons  (apparently)  for  declining  to  let 
Lis  host  offend  him  on  any  terms  whatever. 

"  Thank  you  !"  he  rejoined,  in  a  tone  of  satirical  good  humor.  "  It 
isn't  easy  to  keep  my  place  on  board  your  vessel.  I  can't  help  pre- 
suming to  enjoy  myself  as  if  I  was  the  owner.  The  life  is  such  a 
new  one  —  to  me!  It's  so  delightfully  easy,  for  instance,  to  wash 
yourself  here.  On  shore  it's  a  complicated  question  of  jugs  and  ba- 
sins and  tubs ;  one  is  always  in  danger  of  breaking  something, 
or  spoiling  something.  Here  you  have  only  to  jump  out  of  bed,  to 
run  up  on  deck,  and  to  do  this!" 

He  turned,  and  scampered  to  the  bows  of  the  vessel.  In  one  in- 
stant he  was  out  of  his  night-gown,  in  another  he  was  on  the  bul- 
wark, in  a  third  he  was  gamboling  luxuriously  in  sixty  fathoms  of 
salt-water. 

Turlington's  eyes  followed  him  with  a  reluctant,  uneasy  attention 
as  he  swam  round  the  vessel,  the  only  moving  object  in  view.  Tur- 
lington's mind,  steady  and  slow  in  all  its  operations,  set  him  a  prob- 
lem to  be  solved,  on  given  conditions,  as  follows : 

"  Launcelot  Linzie  is  fifteen  years  younger  than  I  am.  Add  to 
that,  Launcelot  Linzie  is  Natalie  Graybrooke's  cousin.  Given  those 
two  advantages — Query :  Has  he  taken  Natalie's  fancy  ?" 

Turning  that  question  slowly  over  and  over  in  his  mind,  Richard 
Turlington  seated  himself  in  a  corner  at  the  stern  of  the  vessel.  He 
was  still  at  work  on  the  problem,  when  the  young  surgeon  returned 
to  his  cabin  to  put  the  finishing  touches  to  his  toilet.  He  had  not 
reached  the  solution  when  the  steward  appeared  an  hour  later  and 
said,  "  Breakfast  is  ready,  sir !" 

They  were  a  party  of  five  round  the  cabin  table. 

First,  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke.  Inheritor  of  a  handsome  fortune 
made  by  his  father  and  his  grandfather  in  trade.  Mayor,  twice 
elected,  of  a  thriving  provincial  town.  Officially  privileged,  while 
holding  that  dignity,  to  hand  a  silver  trowe}  to  a  royal  personage 
condescending  to  lay  a  first  stone  of  a  charitable  edifice.  Knighted, 
accordingly,  in  honor  of  the  occasion.  Worthy  of  the  honor  and 
worthy  of  the  occasion.  A  type  of  his  eminently  respectable  class. 
Possessed  of  an  amiable,  rosy  face,  and  soft,  sjlky  white  hair.  Sound 
in  his  principles;  tidy  in  his  dress;  blessed  with  moderate  politics 
and  a  good  digestion — a  harmless,  healthy,  spruce,  speckless,  weak- 
minded  old  man. 

Secondly,  Miss  Lavinia  Graybrooke,  Sir  Joseph's  maiden  sister. 
Personally,  Sir  Joseph  in  petticoats.  If  you  knew  one  you  knew 
che  other. 

Thirdly,  Miss  Natalie  Graybrooke — Sir  Joseph's  only  child. 

She  had  inherited  the  personal  appearance  and  the  temperament 
of  her  mother — dead  many  years  since.  There  had  been  a  mixture 

13 


364  MiSS   OR  MRS.  ? 

of  Negro  blood  and  French  blood  in  the  late  Lady  Graybrooke's 
family,  settled  originally  in  Martinique.  Natalie  had  her  mother's 
warm  dusky  color,  her  mother's  superb  black  hair,  and  her  mother's 
melting,  lazy,  lovely  brown  eyes.  At  fifteen  years  of  age  (dating  from 
her  last  birthday)  she  possessed  the  development  of  the  bosom  and 
limbs  which  in  England  is  rarely  attained  before  twenty.  Every 
thing  about  the  girl — except  her  little  rosy  ears — was  on  a  grand 
Amazonian  scale.  Her  shapely  hand  was  long  and  large ;  her  sup- 
ple waist  was  the  waist  of  a  woman.  The  indolent  grace  of  all  her 
movements  had  its  motive  power  in  an  almost  masculine  firmness 
of  action,  and  profusion  of  physical  resource.  This  remarkable  bod- 
ily development  was  far  from  being  accompanied  by  any  corre- 
sponding development  of  character.  Natalie's  manner  was  the  gen- 
tle, innocent  manner  of  a  young  girl.  She  had  her  father's  sweet 
temper  ingrafted  on  her  mother's  variable  Southern  nature.  She 
moved  like  a  goddess,  and  she  laughed  like  a  child.  Signs  of  ma- 
turing too  rapidly — of  outgrowing  her  strength,  as  the  phrase  went 
— had  made  their  appearance  in  Sir  Joseph's  daughter  during  the 
spring.  The  family  doctor  had  suggested  a  sea-voyage,  as  a  wise 
manner  of  employing  the  fine  summer  months.  Richard  Turling- 
ton's yacht  was  placed  at  her  disposal,  with  Richard  Turlington 
himself  included  as  one  of  the  fixtures  of  the  vessel.  With  her 
father  and  her  aunt  to  keep  up  round  her  the  atmosphere  of  home 
— with  Cousin  Launcelot  (more  commonly  known  as  "  Launce  ")  to 
carry  out,  if  necessary,  the  medical  treatment  prescribed  by  supe- 
rior authority  on  shore — the  lovely  invalid  embarked  on  her  summer 
cruise,  and  sprang  up  into  a  new  existence  in  the  life-giving  breezes 
of  the  sea.  After  two  happy  months  of  lazy  coasting  round  the 
shores  of  England,  all  that  remained  of  Natalie's  illness  was  repre- 
sented by  a  delicious  languor  in  her  eyes,  and  an  utter  inability  to 
devote  herself  to  any  thing  which  took  the  shape  of  a  serious  occu- 
pation. As  she  sat  at  the  cabin  breakfast -table  that  morning,  in  her 
quaintly-made  sailing  dress  of  old-fashioned  nankeen  —  her  inbred 
childishness  of  manner  contrasting  delightfully  with  the  blooming 
maturity  of  her  form — the  man  must  have  been  trebly  armed  indeed 
in  the  modern  philosophy  who  could  have  denied  that  the  first  of  a 
woman's  rights  is  the  right  of  being  beautiful;  and  the  foiemost  of 
a  woman's  merits,  the  merit  of  being  young ! 

The  other  two  persons  present  at  the  table  were  the  two  gentle- 
men who  have  already  appeared  on  the  deck  of  the  yacht. 

"  Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirring !"  said  Richard  Turlington.  "  The 
weather  has  got  a  grudge  against  us.  We  have  drifted  about  four 
or  five  miles  in  the  last  eight-and-forty  hours.  You  will  never  take 
another  cruise  with  me — you  must  be  longing  to  get  on  shore." 

He  addressed  himself  to  Natalie ;  plainly  eager  to  make  himself 


MTSS   OR  MRS.?  305 

agreeable  to  the  young  lady — and  plainly  unsuccessful  in  producing 
any  impression  on  her.  She  made  a  civil  answer;  and  looked  at 
her  tea-cup,  instead  of  looking  at  Richard  Turlington. 

"  You  might  fancy  yourself  on  shore  at  this  moment,"  said  Launce. 
"  The  vessel  is  as  steady  as  a  house,  and  the  swing-table  we  are  eat- 
ing our  breakfast  on  is  as  .even  as  your  dining-room  table  at  home." 

He  too  addressed  himself  to  Natalie,  but  without  betraying  the 
anxiety  to  please  her  which  had  been  shown  by  the  other.  For  all 
that,  he  diverted  the  girl's  attention  from  her  tea-cup ;  and  his  idea 
instantly  awakened  a  responsive  idea  in  Natalie's  mind. 

"  It  will  be  so  strange  on  shore,"  she  said,  "  to  find  myself  in  a 
room  that  never  turns  on  one  side,  and  to  sit  at  a  table  that  never 
tilts  down  to  my  knees  at  one  time,  or  rises  up  to  my  chin  at  an- 
other. How  I  shall  miss  the  wash  of  the  water  at  my  ear,  and  the 
ring  of  the  bell  on  deck,  when  I  am  awake  at  night  on  land !  No 
interest  there  in  how  the  wind  blows,  or  how  the  sails  are  set.  No 
asking  your  way  of  the  sun,  when  you  are  lost,  with  a  little  brass  in- 
strument and  a  morsel  of  pencil  and  paper.  No  delightful  wander- 
ing wherever  the  wind  takes  you,  without  the  worry  of  planning 
beforehand  where  you  are  to  go.  Oh  how  I  shall  miss  the  dear, 
changeable,  inconstant  sea !  And  how  sorry  I  am  I'm  not  a  man 
and  a  sailor !" 

This  to  the  guest  admitted  on  board  on  sufferance,  and  not  one 
word  of  it  addressed,  even  by  chance,  to  the  owner  of  the  yacht ! 

Richard  Turlington's  heavy  eyebrows  contracted  with  an  unmis- 
takable expression  of  pain. 

"  If  this  calm  weather  holds,"  he  went  on,  addressing  himself  to 
Sir  Joseph,  "  I  am  afraid,  Graybrooke,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  bring 
you  back  to  the  port  we  sailed  from  by  the  end  of  the  week." 

"  Whenever  you  like,  Richard,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  re- 
signedly. "  Any  time  will  do  for  me." 

"Any  time  within  reasonable  limits,  Joseph,"  said  Miss  Lavinia, 
evidently  feeling  that  her  brother  was  conceding  too  much.  She 
spoke  with  Sir  Joseph's  amiable  smile  and  Sir  Joseph's  softly-pitch- 
ed voice.  Two  twin  babies  could  hardly  have  been  more  like  one 
another. 

While  these  few  words  were  being  exchanged  among  the  elders, 
a  private  communication  was  in  course  of  progress  between  the  two 
young  people  under  the  cabin  table.  Natalie's  smartly-slippered 
foot  felt  its  way  cautiously  inch  by  inch  over  the  carpet  till  it 
touched  Launce's  boot.  Launce,  devouring  his  breakfast,  instantly 
looked  up  from  his  plate,  and  then,  at  a  second  touch  from  Natalie, 
looked  down  again  in  a  violent  hurry.  After  pausing  to  make  sure 
that  she  was  not  noticed,  Natalie  took  up  her  knife.  Under  a  per- 
fectly-acted pretense  of  toying  with  it  absently,  in  the  character  of 


306  MISS   OH  MRS.? 

a  young  lady  absorbed  in  thought,  she  began1  dividing  a  morsel  of 
ham  left  on  the  edge  of  her  plate,  into  six  tiny  pieces.  Launce's 
eye  looked  in  sidelong  expectation  at  the  divided  and  subdivided 
ham.  He  was  evidently  waiting  to  see  the  collection  of  morsels 
put  to  some  telegraphic  use,  previously  determined  on  between  his 
neighbor  and  himself. 

In  the  mean  while  the  talk  proceeded  among  the  other  persons  at 
the  breakfast-table.  Miss  Lavinia  addressed  herself  to  Launce. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  careless  boy,  you  gave  me  a  fright  this  morn- 
ing ?  I  was  sleeping  with  my  cabin  window  open,  and  I  was  awoke 
by  an  awful  splash  in  the  water.  I  called  for  the  stewardess.  I  de- 
clare I  thought  somebody  had  fallen  overboard  !" 

Sir  Joseph  looked  up  briskly ;  his  sister  had  accidentally  touched 
on  an  old  association. 

"  Talk  of  falling  overboard,"  he  began,  "  reminds  me  of  an  extraor- 
dinary adventure — " 

There  Launce  broke  in,  making  his  apologies. 

"  It  sha'n't  occur  again,  Miss  Lavinia,"  he  said.  "  To-morrow 
morning  I'll  oil  myself  all  over,  and  slip  into  the  water  as  silently 
as  a  seal." 

"  Of  an  extraordinary  adventure,"  persisted  Sir  Joseph,  "  which 
happened  to  me  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  young  man.  La- 
vinia ?" 

He  stopped,  and  looked  interrogatively  at  his  sister.  Miss  Gray~ 
brooke  nodded  her  head  responsively,  and  settled  herself  in  her 
chair,  as  if  summoning  her  attention  in  anticipation  of  a  coming  de- 
mand on  it.  To  persons  well  acquainted  with  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter these  proceedings  were  ominous  of  an  impending  narrative,  pro- 
tracted to  a  formidable  length.  The  two  always  told  a  story  in 
couples,  and  always  differed  with  each  other  about  the  facts,  the 
sister  politely  contradicting  the  brother  when  it  was  Sir  Joseph's 
story,  and  the  brother  politely  contradicting  the  sister  when  it  was 
Miss  Lavinia's  story.  Separated  one  from  the  other,  and  thus  re- 
lieved of  their  own  habitual  interchange  of  contradiction,  neither 
of  them  had  ever  been  known  to  attempt  the  relation  of  the  sim- 
plest series  of  events  without  breaking  down. 

"  It  was  five  years  before  I  knew  you,  Richard,"  proceeded  Sir 
Joseph. 

"  Six  years,"  said  Miss  Graybrooke. 

"  Excuse  me,  Lavinia." 

"  No,  Joseph,  I  have  it  down  in  my  diary." 

"  Let  us  waive  the  point."  (Sir  Joseph  invariably  used  this  for- 
mula as  a  means  of  at  once  conciliating  his  sister,  and  getting  a 
fresh  start  for  his  story.)  "  I  was  cruising  off  the  Mersey  in  a  Liver- 
pool pilot-boat.  I  had  hired  the  boat  in  company  with  a  friend  of 


MISS   OR   MRS.  ?  307 

mine,  formerly  notorious  in  London  society,  under  the  nickname 
(derived  from  the  peculiar  brown  color  of  his  whiskers)  of '  Mahog- 
any Dobbs.' " 

"  The  color  of  his  liveries,  Joseph,  not  the  color  of  his  whiskers." 

"  My  dear  Lavinia,  you  are  thinking  of '  Seagreen  Shaw,'  so  called 
from  the  extraordinary  liveries  he  adopted  for  his  servants  in  the 
year  when  he  was  sheriff." 

"  I  think  not,  Joseph." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lavinia." 

Richard  Turlington's  knotty  fingers  drummed  impatiently  on  the 
table.  He  looked  toward  Natalie.  She  was  idly  arranging  her  lit- 
tle morsels  of  ham  in  a  pattern  on  her  plate.  Launcelot  Linzie,  still 
more  idly,  was  looking  at  the  pattern.  Seeing  what  he  saw  now, 
Richard  solved  the  problem  which  had  puzzled  him  on  deck.  It 
was  simply  impossible  that  Natalie's  fancy  could  be  really  taken  by 
such  an  empty-headed  fool  as  that ! 

Sir  Joseph  went  on  with  his  story  : 

"  We  were  some  ten  or  a  dozen  miles  off  the  mouth  of  the  Mer- 
sey—" 

"  Nautical  miles,  Joseph." 

"  It  doesn't  matter,  Lavinia." 

"  Excuse  me,  brother,  the  late  great  and  good  Doctor  Johnson 
said  accuracy  ought  always  to  be  studied  even  in  the  most  trifling 
things." 

"  They  were  common  miles,  Lavinia." 

"  They  were  nautical  miles,  Joseph." 

"  Let  us  waive  the  point.  Mahogany  Dobbs  and  I  happened  to 
be  below  in  the  cabin,  occupied — " 

Here  Sir  Joseph  paused  (with  his  amiable  smile)  to  consult  his 
memory.  Miss  Lavinia  waited  (with  her  amiable  smile)  for  the 
coming  opportunity  of  setting  her  brother  right.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment Natalie  laid  down  her  knife  and  softly  touched  Launce  under 
the  table.  When  she  thus  claimed  his  attention  the  six  pieces  of 
ham  were  arranged  as  follows  in  her  plate  :  Two  pieces  were  placed 
opposite  each  other,  and  four  pieces  were  ranged  perpendicularly 
under  them.  Launce  looked,  and  twice  touched  Natalie  under  the 
table.  Interpreted  by  the  Code  agreed  on  between  the  two,  the  sig- 
nal in  the  plate  meant,  "  I  must  see  you  in  private."  And  Launce's 
double  touch  answered,  "  After  breakfast." 

Sir  Joseph  proceeded  with  his  story.  Natalie  took  up  her  knife 
again.  Another  signal  coming ! 

"  We  were  both  down  in  the  cabin,  occupied  in  finishing  our  din- 
ner—" 

"  Just  sitting  down  to  lunch,  Joseph." 

"  My  dear !  I  ought  to  know." 


308  MISS   OR  MRS.  ? 

'*  I  only  repeat  what  I  heard,  brother.  The  last  time  you  told  the 
story,  you  and  your  friend  were  sitting  down  to  lunch." 

"  We  won't  particularize,  Lavinia.  Suppose  we  say  occupied  over 
a  meal  ?" 

"  If  it  is  of  no  more  importance  than  that,  Joseph,  it  would  be 
surely  better  to  leave  it  out  altogether." 

"  Let  us  waive  the  point.  Well,  we  were  suddenly  alarmed  by  a 
shout  on  deck,  '  Man  overboard !'  We  both  rushed  up  the  cabin 
stairs,  naturally  under  the  impression  that  one  of  our  crew  had  fall- 
en into  the  sea :  an  impression  shared,  I  ought  to  add,  by  the  man 
at  the  helm,  who  had  given  the  alarm." 

Sir  Joseph  paused  again.  He  was  approaching  one  of  the  great 
dramatic  points  in  his  story,  and  was  naturally  anxious  to  present  it 
as  impressively  as  possible.  He  considered  with  himself,  with  his 
head  a  little  on  one  side.  Miss  Lavinia  considered  with  herself, 
with  Tier  head  a  little  on  one  side.  Natalie  laid  down  her  knife 
again,  and  again  touched  Launce  under  the  table.  This  time  there 
were  five  pieces  of  ham  ranged  longitudinally  on  the  plate,  with  one 
piece  immediately  under  them  at  the  centre  of  the  line.  Interpret- 
ed by  the  Code,  this  signal  indicated  two  ominous  words,  "  Bad 
news."  Launce  looked  significantly  at  the  owner  of  the  yacht 
(meaning  of  the  look,  "  Is  he  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?").  Natalie  frown- 
ed in  reply  (meaning  of  the  frown,  "  Yes,  he  is  ").  Launce  looked 
down  again  into  the  plate.  Natalie  instantly  pushed  all  the  pieces 
of  ham  together  in  a  little  heap  (meaning  of  the  heap,  "  No  more  to 
say"). 

"  Well  ?"  said  Richard  Turlington,  turning  sharply  on  Sir  Joseph. 
"  Get  on  with  your  story.  What  next  ?" 

Thus  far  he  had  not  troubled  himself  to  show  even  a  decent  pre- 
tense of  interest  in  his  old  friend's  perpetually-interrupted  narrative. 
It  was  only  when  Sir  Joseph  had  reached  his  last  sentence — intima- 
ting that  the  man  overboard  might  turn  out  in  course  of  time  not 
to  IDC  a  man  of  the  pilot-boat's  crew — it  was  only  then  that  Turling- 
ton sat  up  in  his  chair,  and  showed  signs  of  suddenly  feeling  a  strong 
interest  in  the  progress  of  the  story. 

Sir  Joseph  went  on : 

"  As  soon  as  we  got  on  deck,  we  saw  the  man  in  the  water,  astern. 
Our  vessel  was  hove  up  in  the  wind,  and  the  boat  was  lowered. 
The  master  and  one  of  the  men  took  the  oars.  All  told,  our  crew 
were  seven  in  number.  Two  away  in  the  boat,  a  third  at  the  helm, 
and,  to  my  amazement,  when  I  looked  round,  the  other  four  behind 
me  making  our  number  complete.  At  the  same  moment  Mahogany 
Dobbs,  who  was  looking  through  a  telescope,  called  out, '  Who  the 
devil  can  he  be  ?  The  man  is  floating  on  a  hen-coop,  and  we  have 
got  nothing  of  the  sort  on  board  this  pilot-boat.' " 


MISS   OR   MBS.?  309 

Tlic  one  person  present  who  happened  to  notice  Richard  Turling- 
tnn's  face  when  those  words  were  pronounced  was  Launcelot  Linzie. 
He — and  he  alone — saw  the  Levant  trader's  swarthy  complexion 
fade  slowly  to  a  livid  ashen  gray ;  his  eyes  the  while  fixing  them- 
selves on  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke  with  a  furtive  glare  in  them  like 
the  glare  in  the  eyes  of  a  wild  beast.  Apparently  conscious  that 
Launce  was  looking  at  him  —  though  he  never  turned  his  head 
Launce's  way — he  laid  his  elbow  on  the  table,  lifted  his  arm,  and  so 
rested  his  face  on  his  hand,  while  the  story  went  on,  as  to  screen  it 
I'tVt ctiiiilly  from  the  young  surgeon's  view. 

"  The  man  was  brought  on  board,"  proceeded  Sir  Joseph,  "  sure 
enough,  with  a  hen-coop — on  which  he  had  been  found  floating. 
Tlic  poor  wretch  was  blue  with  terror  and  exposure  in  the  water; 
he  fainted  when  we  lifted  him  on  deck.  When  he  came  to  himself 
he  told  us  a  horrible  story.  He  was  a  sick  and  destitute  foreign 
seaman,  and  he  had  hidden  himself  in  the  hold  of  an  English  vessel 
(bound  to  a  port  in  his  native  country)  which  had  sailed  from  Liv- 
erpool that  morning.  He  had  been  discovered,  and  brought  before 
the  captain.  The  captain,  a  monster  in  human  form,  if  ever  there 
was  one  yet — " 

Before  the  next  word  of  the  sentence  could  pass  Sir  Joseph's  lips, 
Turlington  startled  the  little  party  in  the  cabin  by  springing  sud- 
denly to  his  feet. 

"  The  breeze !"  he  cried ;  "  the  breeze  at  last !" 

As  he  spoke,  he  wheeled  round  to  the  cabin  door  so  as  to  turn  his 
back  on  his  guests,  and  hailed  the  deck. 

"  Which  way  is  the  wind  ?" 

"  There  is  not  a  breath  of  wind,  sir." 

Not  the  slightest  movement  in  the  vessel  had  been  perceptible  in 
the  cabin ;  not  a  sound  had  been  audible  indicating  the  rising  of 
the  breeze.  The  owner  of  the  yacht — accustomed  to  the  sea,  capa- 
ble, if  necessary,  of  sailing  his  own  vessel  —  had  surely  committed 
a  strange  mistake !  He  turned  again  to  his  friends,  and  made  bis 
apologies  with  an  excess  of  polite  regret  far  from  characteristic  of 
him  at  other  times  and  under  other  circumstances. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said  to  Sir  Joseph,  when  he  had  got  to  the  end  of 
his  excuses;  "I  never  heard  such  an  interesting  story  in  my  life. 
Pray  go  on !" 

The  request  was  not  an  easy  one  to  comply  with.  Sir  Joseph's 
ideas  had  been  thrown  into  confusion.  Miss  Lavinia's  contradic- 
tions (held  in  reserve)  had  been  scattered  beyond  recall.  Both 
brother  and  sister  were,  moreover,  additionally  hindered  in  recover- 
ing the  control  of  their  own  resources  by  the  look  and  manner  of 
their  host.  He  alarmed,  instead  of  encouraging  the  two  harmless 
old  people,  by  fronting  them  almost  fiercely,  with  his  elbows  squared 


310  MISS   OB   MBS.  ? 

on  the  table,  and  his  face  expressive  of  a  dogged  resolution  to  sit 
there  and  listen,  if  need  be,  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Launce  was  the 
person  who  set  Sir  Joseph  going  again.  After  first  looking  atten- 
tively at  Richard,  he  took  his  uncle  straight  back  to  the  story  by 
means  of  a  question,  thus : 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  the  captain  of  the  ship  threw  the 
man  overboard  ?" 

"  That  is  just  what  he  did,  Launce.  The  poor  wretch  was  too  ill 
to  work  his  passage.  The  captain  declared  he  would  have  no  idle 
foreign  vagabond  in  his  ship  to  eat  up  the  provisions  of  English- 
men who  worked.  With  his  own  hands  he  cast  the  hen-coop  into 
the  water,  and  (assisted  by  one  of  his  sailors)  he  threw  the  man 
after  it,  and  told  him  to  float  back  to  Liverpool  with  the  evening 
tide." 

"  A  lie !"  cried  Turlington,  addressing  himself,  not  to  Sir  Joseph, 
but  to  Launce. 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  circumstances?"  asked  Launce, 
quietly. 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  circumstances.  I  say,  from  my  own 
experience,  that  foreign  sailors  are  even  greater  blackguards  than 
English  sailors.  The  man  had  met  with  an  accident,  no  doubt. 
The  rest  of  his  story  was  a  lie,  and  the  object  of  it  was  to  open  Sir 
Joseph's  purse." 

Sir  Joseph  mildly  shook  his  head. 

"  No  lie,  Richard.  Witnesses  proved  that  the  man  had  spoken 
the  truth." 

"  Witnesses  ?    Pdoh  !     More  liars,  you  mean." 

"  I  went  to  the  owners  of  the  vessel,"  pursued  Sir  Joseph.  "  I 
got  from  them  the  names  of  the  officers  and  the  crew,  and  I  waited, 
leaving  the  case  in  the  hands  of  the  Liverpool  police.  The  ship 
was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Amazon,  but  the  crew  and  the 
cargo  were  saved.  The  men  belonging  to  Liverpool  came  back. 
They  were  a  bad  set,  I  grant  you.  But  they  were  examined  sepa- 
rately about  the  treatment  of  the  foreign  sailor,  and  they  all  told 
the  same  story.  They  could  give  no  account  of  their  captain,  nor 
of  the  sailor  who  had  been  his  accomplice  in  the  crime,  except  that 
they  had  not  embarked  in  the  ship  which  brought  the  rest  of  the 
crew  to  England.  Whatever  may  have  become  of  the  captain  since, 
he  certainly  never  returned  to  Liverpool." 

"  Did  you  find  out  his  name  ?" 

The  question  was  asked  by  Turlington.  Even  Sir  Joseph,  the 
least  observant  of  men,  noticed  that  it  was  put  with  a  perfectly  un- 
accountable irritability  of  manner. 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Richard,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  What  is 
there  to  be  angry  about  ?" 


MISS    OR   MRS.?  311 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I'm  not  angry — I'm  only  curious. 
Did  you  find  out  who  he  was  ?" 

"I  did.  His  name  was  Goward.  He  was  well  known  at  Liver- 
pool as  a  very  clever  and  a  very  dangerous  man.  Quite  young  at 
the  time  I  am  speaking  of,  and  a  first-rate  sailor ;  famous  for  taking 
command  of  unseaworthy  ships  and  vagabond  crews.  Report  de- 
scribed him  to  me  as  having  made  considerable  sums  of  money 
in  that  way,  for  a  man  in  his  position .  serving  firms,  you  know, 
with  a  bad  name,  and  running  all  sorts  of  desperate  risks.  A  sad 
ruffian,  Richard !  More  than  once  in  trouble,  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic,  for  acts  of  violence  and  cruelty.  Dead,  I  dare  say,  long 
since." 

"  Or  possibly,"  said  Launce,  "  alive,  under  another  name,  and 
thriving  in  a  new  way  of  life,  with  more  desperate  risks  in  it,  of 
some  other  sort." 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  circumstances?"  asked  Turlington, 
retorting  Launce's  question  on  him,  with  a  harsh  ring  of  defiance  in 
his  brassy  voice. 

"What  became  of  the  poor  foreign  sailor,  papa?"  said  Natalie, 
purposely  interrupting  Launce  before  he  could  meet  the  question 
angrily  asked  of  him,  by  an  angry  reply. 

"  We  made  a  subscription,  and  spoke  to  his  consul,  my  dear. 
He  went  back  to  his  country,  poor  fellow,  comfortably  enough." 

"And  there  is  an  end  of  Sir  Joseph's  story,"  said  Turlington, 
rising  noisily  from  his  chair.  "  It's  a  pity  we  haven't  got  a  literary 
man  on  board — he  would  make  a  novel  of  it."  He  looked  up  at  the 
sky-light  as  he  got  on  his  feet.  "  Here  is  the  breeze,  this  time,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  and  no  mistake !" 

It  was  true.  At  last  the  breeze  had  come.  The  sails  flapped,  the 
main  boom  swung  over  with  a  thump,  and  the  stagnant  water,  stir- 
red at  last,  bubbled  merrily  past  the  vessel's  sides. 

"  Come  on  deck,  Natalie,  and  get  some  fresh  air,"  said  Miss  La- 
vinia,  leading  the  way  to  the  cabin  door. 

Natalie  held  up  the  skirt  of  her  nankeen  dress,  and  exhibited  the 
purple  trimming  torn  away  over  an  extent  of  some  yards. 

"  Give  me  half  an  hour  first,  aunt,  in  my  cabin,"  she  said,  "  to 
mend  this." 

Miss  Lavinia  elevated  her  venerable  eyebrows  in  amazement 

"  You  have  done  nothing  but  tear  your  dresses,  my  dear,  since 
you  have  been  in  Mr.  Turlington's  yacht.  Most  extraordinary !  I 
have  torn  none  of  mine  during  the  whole  cruise." 

Natalie's  dark  color  deepened  a  shade.  She  laughed,  a  little  un- 
easily. "  I  am  so  awkward  on  board  ship,"  she  replied,  and  turned 
away,  and  shut  herself  up  in  her  cabin. 

Richard  Turlington  produced  his  case  of  cigars. 

13* 


312  MISS    OR   MKS.  ? 

"  Now  is  the  time,"  he  said  to  Sir  Joseph,  "  for  the  best  cigar  oi 
the  day — the  cigar  after  breakfast.  Come  on  deck." 

"You  will  join  us,  Launce?"  said  Sir  Joseph. 

"  Give  me  half  an  hour  first  over  my  books,"  Launce  replied.  "  I 
mustn't  let  my  medical  knowledge  get  musty  at  sea,  and  I  might  not 
feel  inclined  to  study  later  in  the  day." 

"  Quite  right,  my  dear  boy,  quite  right." 

Sir  Joseph  patted  his  nephew  approvingly  on  the  shoulder.  Launce 
turned  away  on  his  side,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin. 

The  other  three  ascended  together  to  the  deck. 


SECOND  SCENE. 

THE    STORE-ROOM. 

PERSONS  possessed  of  sluggish  livers  and  tender  hearts  find  two 
serious  drawbacks  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  cruise  at  sea.  It  is  exceed- 
ingly difficult  to  get  enough  walking  exercise ;  and  it  is  next  to  im- 
possible (where  secrecy  is  an  object)  to  make  love  without  being 
found  out.  Reverting  for  the  moment  to  the  latter  difficulty  only, 
life  within  the  narrow  and  populous  limits  of  a  vessel  may  be  de- 
fined as  essentially  life  in  public.  From  morning  to  night  you  are 
in  your  neighbor's  way,  or  your  neighbor  is  in  your  way.  As  a  nec- 
essary result  of  these  conditions,  the  rarest  of  existing  men  may  be 
defined  as  the  man  who  is  capable  of  stealing  a  kiss  at  sea  without 
discovery.  An  inbred  capacity  for  stratagem  of  the  finest  sort ;  in- 
exhaustible inventive  resources ;  patience  which  can  flourish  under 
superhuman  trials ;  presence  of  mind  which  can  keep  its  balance 
victoriously  under  every  possible  stress  of  emergency  —  these  are 
some  of  the  qualifications  which  must  accompany  Love  on  a  cruise, 
when  Love  embarks  in  the  character  of  a  contraband  commodity 
not  duly  entered  on  the  papers  of  the  ship. 

Having  established  a  Code  of  Signals  which  enabled  them  to  com- 
municate privately,  while  the  eyes  and  ears  of  others  were  wide  open 
on  every  side  of  them,  Natalie  and  Launce  were  next  confronted  by 
the  more  serious  difficulty  of  finding  a  means  of  meeting  together  at 
stolen  interviews  on  board  the  yacht.  Possessing  none  of  those  pre- 
cious moral  qualifications  already  enumerated  as  the  qualifications 
of  an  accomplished  lover  at  sea,  Launce  had  proved  unequal  to 
grapple  with  the  obstacles  in  his  way.  Left  to  her  own  inventive 
resources,  Natalie  had  first  suggested  the  young  surgeon's  medical 
studies  as  Launce's  unanswerable  excuse  for  shutting  himself  up  at 
intervals  in  the  lower  regions,  and  had  then  hit  on  the  happy  idea 
of  tearing  her  trimmings,  and  condemning  herself  to  repair  her  own 


MI8S   OR   MRS.?  313 

carelessness,  as  the  all-sufficient  reason  for  similar  acts  of  self-seclu- 
sion on  her  side.  In  this  way  the  lovers  contrived,  while  the  inno- 
cent ruling  authorities  were  on  deck,  to  meet  privately  below  them,  on 
the  neutral  ground  of  the  main  cabin ;  and  there,  by  previous  arrange- 
ment at  the  breakfast-table,  they  were  about  to  meet  privately  now. 

Natalie's  door  was,  as  usual  on  these  occasions,  the  first  that 
opened;  for  this  sound  reason,  that  Natalie's  quickness  was  the 
quickness  to  be  depended  on  in  case  of  accident. 

She  looked  up  at  the  sky-light.  There  were  the  legs  of  the  two 
gentlemen  and  the  skirts  of  her  aunt  visible  (and  stationary)  on  the 
lee  side  of  the  deck.  She  advanced  a  few  steps  and  listened.  There 
was  a  pause  in  the  murmur  of  the  voices  above.  She  looked  up 
again.  One  pair  of  legs  (not  her  father's)  had  disappeared.  With- 
out an  instant's  hesitation,  Natalie  darted  back  to  her  own  door, 
just  in  time  to  escape  Richard  Turlington  descending  the  cabin 
stairs.  All  he  did  was  to  go  to  one  of  the  drawers  under  the  main- 
cabin  book-case  and  to  take  out  a  map,  ascending  again  immediate- 
ly to  the  deck.  Natalie's  guilty  conscience  rushed  instantly,  never- 
theless, to  the  conclusion  that  Richard  suspected  her.  When  she 
showed  herself  for  the  second  time,  instead  of  venturing  into  the 
cabin,  she  called  across  it  in  a  whisper, 

"  Launcc !" 

Launce  appeared  at  his  door.  He  was  peremptorily  checked  be- 
fore he  could  cross  the  threshold. 

"  Don't  stir  a  step  !  Richard  has  been  down  in  the  cabin !  Rich- 
ard suspects  us !" 

"  Nonsense  !     Come  out." 

"  Nothing  will  induce  me,  unless  you  can  find  some  other  place 
than  the  cabin." 

Some  other  place  ?  How  easy  to  find  it  on  land  !  How  appar- 
ently impossible  at  sea !  There  was  the  forecastle  (full  of  men)  at 
one  end  of  the  vessel.  There  was  the  sail-room  (full  of  sails)  at  the 
other.  There  was  the  ladies'  cabin  (used  as  the  ladies'  dressing- 
room  ;  inaccessible,  in  that  capacity,  to  every  male  human  being  on 
board).  Was  there  any  disposable  inclosed  space  to  be  found  amid- 
ships ?  On  one  side  there  were  the  sleeping  berths  of  the  sailing- 
master  and  his  mate  (impossible  to  borrow  them).  On  the  other  side 
was  the  steward's  store-room.  Launce  considered  for  a  moment. 
The  steward's  store-room  was  just  the  thing! 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?''  asked  Natalie,  as  her  lover  made  straight 
for  a  closed  door  at  the  lower  extremity  of  the  main  cabin. 

"  To  speak  to  the  steward,  darling.  Wait  one  moment,  and  you 
will  see  me  again." 

Launce  opened  the  store-room  door,  and  discovered,  not  the  stew- 
ard, but  his  wife,  who  occupied  the  situation  of  stewardess  on  board 


314  MISS   OR   MES.  ? 

the  vessel.  The  accident  was,  in  this  case,  a  lucky  one.  Having 
stolen  several  kisses  at  sea,  and  having  been  discovered  (in  every 
case)  either  by  the  steward  or  his  wife,  Launce  felt  no  difficulty  in 
prefacing  his  request  to  be  allowed  the  use  of  the  room  by  the  plainest 
allusion  to  his  relations  with  Natalie.  He  could  count  on  the  silence 
of  the  sympathizing  authorities  in  this  region  of  the  vessel,  having 
wisely  secured  them  as  accomplices  by  the  usual  persuasion  of  the 
pecuniary  sort.  Of  the  two,  however,  the  stewardess,  as  a  woman, 
was  the  more  likely  to  lend  a  ready  ear  to  Launce's  entreaties  in  his 
present  emergency.  After  a  faint  show  of  resistance,  she  consented, 
not  only  to  leave  the  room,  but  to  keep  her  husband  out  of  it,  on 
the  understanding  that  it  was  not  to  be  occupied  for  more  than  ten 
minutes.  Launce  made  the  signal  to  Natalie  at  one  door,  while  the 
stewardess  went  out  by  the  other.  In  a  moment  more  the  lovers 
were  united  in  a  private  room.  Is  it  necessary  to  say  in  what  lan- 
guage the  proceedings  were  opened  ?  Surely  not !  There  is  an  in- 
articulate language  of  the  lips  in  use  on  these  occasions  in  which  we 
are  all  proficient,  though  we  sometimes  forget  it  in  later  life.  Na- 
talie seated  herself  on  a  locker.  The  tea,  sugar,  and  spices  were 
at  her  back,  a  side  of  bacon  swung  over  her  head,  and  a  net  full  of 
lemons  dangled  before  her  face.  It  might  not  be  roomy,  but  it  was 
snug  and  comfortable. 

"  Suppose  they  call  for  the  steward  ?"  she  suggested.  ("  Don't, 
Launce !") 

"  Never  mind.  We  shall  be  safe  enough  if  they  do.  The  steward 
has  only  to  show  himself  on  deck,  and  they  will  suspect  nothing." 

"  Do  be  quiet,  Launce !  I  have  got  dreadful  news  to  tell  you. 
And,  besides,  my  aunt  will  expect  to  see  me  with  my  braid  sewn  on 
again." 

She  had  brought  her  needle  and  thread  with  her.  Whipping  up 
the  skirt  of  her  dress  on  her  knee,  she  bent  forward  over  it,  and  set 
herself  industriously  to  the  repair  of  the  torn  trimming.  In  this 
position  her  lithe  figure  showed  charmingly  its  firm  yet  easy  line. 
The  needle,  in  her  dexterous  brown  fingers,  flew  through  its  work. 
The  locker  was  a  broad  one ;  Launce  was  able  to  seat  himself  par- 
tially behind  her.  In  this  position  who  could  have  resisted  the 
temptation  to  lift  up  her  great  knot  of  broadly-plaited  black  hair, 
and  to  let  the  warm,  dusky  nape  of  her  neck  disclose  itself  to  view  ? 
Who,  looking  at  it,  could  fail  to  revile  the  senseless  modern  fashion 
of  dressing  the  hair,  which  hides  the  double  beauty  of  form  and 
color  that  nestles  at  the  back  of  a  woman's  neck  ?  From  time  to 
time,  as  the  interview  proceeded,  Launce's  lips  emphasized  the  more 
important  words  occurring  in  his  share  of  the  conversation  on  the 
soft,  fragrant  skin  which  the  lifted  hair  let  him  see  at  intervals.  In 
Launce's  place,  sir,  you  would  have  done  it  too. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  315 

"  Now,  Natalie,  what  is  the  news  ?" 

"  He  has  spoken  to  papa,  Launce." 

"  Richard  Turlington  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  D— n  him  !" 

Natalie  started.  A  curse  addressed  to  the  back  of  your  neck,  in- 
stantly followed  by  a  blessing  in  the  shape  of  a  kiss,  is  a  little  try- 
ing when  you  are  not  prepared  for  it. 

"  Don't  do  that  again,  Launce !  It  was  while  you  were  on  deck 
smoking,  and  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  fast  asleep.  I  opened  the 
ventilator  in  my  cabin  door,  dear,  and  I  heard  every  word  they  said. 
He  waited  till  my  aunt  was  out  of  the  way,  and  he  had  got  papa  all 
to  himself,  and  then  he  began  it  in  that  horrible,  downright  voice 
of  his — '  Graybrooke !  how  much  longer  am  I  to  wait  ?' " 

"  Did  he  say  that  ?" 

"  No  more  swearing,  Launce !  Those  were  the  words.  Papa 
didn't  understand  them.  He  only  said  (poor  dear !) — '  Bless  my 
soul,  Richard,  what  do  you  want  ?'  Richard  soon  explained  him- 
self. 'Who  could  he  be  waiting  for — but  Me?'  Papa  said  some- 
thing about  my  being  so  young.  Richard  stopped  his  mouth  di- 
rectly. '  Girls  were  like  fruit ;  some  ripened  soon,  and  some  ripened 
late.  Some  were  women  at  twenty,  and  some  were  women  at  six- 
teen. It  was  impossible  to  look  at  me,  and  not  see  that  I  was  like 
a  new  being  after  my  two  months  at  sea,'  and  so  on  and  so  on. 
Papa  behaved  like  an  angel.  He  still  tried  to  put  it  off.  '  Plenty 
of  time,  Richard,  plenty  of  time.'  '  Plenty  of  time  for  her '  (was  the 
wretch's  answer  to  that)  ;  '  but  not  for  me.  Think  of  all  I  have  to 
offer  her '  (as  if  I  cared  for  his  money !) ;  '  think  how  long  I  have 
looked  upon  her  as  growing  up  to  be  my  wife '  (growing  up  for  him 
— monstrous !), '  and  don't  keep  me  in  a  state  of  uncertainty,  which  it 
gets  harder  and  harder  for  a  man  in  my  position  to  endure !'  He 
was  really  quite  eloquent.  His  voice  trembled.  There  is  no  doubt, 
dear,  that  he  is  very,  very  fond  of  me." 

"  And  you  feel  flattered  by  it,  of  course  ?" 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense.  I  feel  a  little  frightened  at  it,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  Frightened  ?    Did  you  notice  him  this  morning  ?" 

"I?    When?" 

"  When  your  father  was  telling  that  story  about  the  man  over- 
board." 

"  No.    What  did  he  do  ?    Tell  me,  Launce." 

"  I'll  tell  you  directly.  How  did  it  all  end  last  night  ?  Did  your 
father  make  any  sort  of  promise  ?" 

"  You  know  Richard's  way ;  Richard  left  him  no  other  choice. 
Papa  had  to  promise  before  he  was  allowed  to  go  to  bed." 


316  MISS   OK  MKS.  ? 

"  To  let  Turlington  marry  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  the  week  after  my  next  birthday." 

"  The  week  after  next  Christmas-day  ?" 

"  Yes.  Papa  is  to  speak  to  me  as  soon  as  we  are  at  home  again, 
and  my  married  life  is  to  begin  with  the  New  Year." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Natalie  ?  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  it  has 
gone  as  far  as  that  ?" 

"  They  have  settled  every  thing.  The  splendid  establishment  we 
are  to  set  up,  the  great  income  we  are  to  have.  I  heard  papa  tell 
Richard  that  half  his  fortune  should  go  to  me  on  my  wedding-day. 
It  was  sickening  to  hear  how  much  they  made  of  Money,  and  how 
little  they  thought  of  Love.  What  am  I  to  do,  Launce  ?" 

"  That's  easily  answered,  my  darling.  In  the  first  place,  you  are 
to  make  up  your  mind  not  to  marry  Richard  Turlington — " 

"  Do  talk  reasonably.  You  know  I  have  done  all  I  could.  I  have 
told  papa  that  I  can  think  of  Richard  as  a  friend,  but  not  as  a  hus- 
band. He  only  laughs  at  me,  and  says, '  Wait  a  little,  and  you  will 
alter  your  opinion,  my  dear.'  You  see  Richard  is  every  thing  to 
him ;  Richard  has  always  managed  his  affairs,  and  has  saved  him 
from  losing  by  bad  speculations ;  Richard  has  known  me  from  the 
time  when  I  was  a  child ;  Richard  has  a  splendid  business,  and 
quantities  of  money.  Papa  can't  even  imagine  that  I  can  resist 
Richard.  I  have  tried  my  aunt;  I  have  told  her  he  is  too  old  for 
me.  All  she  says  is, '  Look  at  your  father ;  he  was  much  older  than 
your  mother,  and  what  a  happy  marriage  theirs  was.'  Even  if  I  said 
in  so  many  words, '  I  won't  marry  Richard,'  what  good  would  it  do 
to  us?  Papa  is  the  best  and  dearest  old  man  in  the  world;  but  oh, 
he  is  so  fond  of  money  !  He  believes  in  nothing  else.  He  would  be 
furious — yes,  kind  as  he  is,  he  would  be  furious — if  I  even  hinted 
that  I  was  fond  of  you.  Any  man  who  proposed  to  marry  me — if  he 
couldn't  match  the  fortune  that  I  should  bring  him  by  a  fortune  of 
his  own  —  would  be  a  lunatic  in  papa's  eyes.  He  wouldn't  think 
it  necessary  to  answer  him ;  he  would  ring  the  bell,  and  have  him 
shown  out  of  the  house.  I  am  exaggerating  nothing,  Launce ;  you 
know  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  There  is  no  hope  in  the  future — 
that  I  can  see — for  either  of  us." 

"  Have  you  done,  Natalie  ?  I  have  something  to  say  on  my  side 
if  you  have." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  If  things  go  on  as  they  are  going  on  now,  shall  I  tell  you  how  it 
will  end  ?  It  will  end  in  your  being  Turlington's  wife." 

"  Never !" 

"  So  you  say  now ;  but  you  don't  know  what  may  happen  between 
this  and  Christmas-day.  Natalie,  there  is  only  one  way  of  making 
sure  that  you  will  never  marry  Richard.  Marry  me." 


MISS   OB   MBS.?  317 

"  Without  papa's  consent  ?" 

"  Without  saying  a  word  to  any  body  till  it's  done." 

"  Oh,  Launce !  Launce  !" 

"  My  darling,  every  word  you  have  said  proves  there  is  no  other 
way.  Think  of  it,  Natalie,  think  of  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  Natalie  dropped  her  needle  and  thread,  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  '•  If  my  poor  mother  was  only  alive,"  she 
said ;  "  if  I  only  had  an  elder  sister  to  advise  me,  and  to  take  my 
part." 

She  was  evidently  hesitating.  Launce  took  a  man's  advantage  of 
her  indecision.  He  pressed  her  without  mercy. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?"  he  whispered,  with  his  lips  close  to  her  ear. 

"  You  know  I  do,  dearly." 

"  Put  it  out  of  Richard's  power  to  part  us,  Natalie." 

"  Part  us  ?  We  are  cousins :  we  have  known  each  other  since  we 
were  both  children.  Even  if  he  proposed  parting  us,  papa  wouldn't 
allow  it." 

"  Mark  my  words,  he  will  propose  it.  As  for  your  father,  Richard 
has  only  to  lift  his  finger  and  your  father  obeys  him.  My  love,  the 
happiness  of  both  our  lives  is  at  stake."  He  wound  his  arm  round 
her,  and  gently  drew  her  head  back  on  his  bosom.  "  Other  girls 
have  done  it,  darling,"  he  pleaded,  "  why  shouldn't  you  ?" 

The  effort  to  answer  him  was  too  much  for  her.  She  gave  it  up. 
A  low  sigh  fluttered  through  her  lips.  She  nestled  closer  to  him, 
and  faintly  closed  her  eyes.  The  next  instant  she  started  up,  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  at  the  sky-light.  Richard  Tur- 
lington's voice  was  suddenly  audible  on  deck  exactly  above  them. 

"  Graybrooke.  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  about  Launcelot  Linzie." 

Natalie's  first  impulse  was  to  fly  to  the  door.  Hearing  Launce's 
name  on  Richard's  lips,  she  checked  herself.  Something  in  Rich- 
ard's tone  roused  in  her  the  curiosity  which  suspends  fear.  She 
waited,  with  her  hand  in  Launce's  hand. 

"  If  you  remember,"  the  brassy  voice  went  on,  "  I  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  taking  him  with  us  on  this  cruise.  You  didn't  agree 
with  me,  and,  at  your  express  request,  I  gave  way.  I  did  wrong. 
Launcelot  Linzie  is  a  very  presuming  young  man." 

Sir  Joseph's  answer  was  accompanied  by  Sir  Joseph's  mellow 
laugh. 

"  My  dear  Richard  !     Surely  you  are  a  little  hard  on  Launce  ?" 

"  You  are  not  an  observant  man,  Graybrooke.  I  am.  I  see  signs 
of  his  presuming  with  all  of  us,  and  especially  with  Natalie.  I 
don't  like  the  manner  in  which  he  speaks  to  her  and  looks  at  her. 
He  is  unduly  familiar ;  he  is  insolently  confidential.  There  must  be 
a  stop  put  to  it  In  my  position,  my  feelings  ought  to  be  regarded. 
I  request  you  to  check  the  intimacy  when  we  get  on  shore." 


318  MISS   OB   MBS.? 

Sir  Joseph's  next  words  were  spoken  more  seriously.  He  ex- 
pressed his  surprise. 

"My  dear  Richard,  they  are  cousins,  they  have  been  playmates 
from  childhood.  How  can  you  think  of  attaching  the  slightest  im- 
portance to  any  thing  that  is  said  or  done  by  poor  Launce  ?" 

There  was  a  good-humored  contempt  in  Sir  Joseph's  reference  to 
"  poor  Launce  "  which  jarred  on  his  daughter.  He  might  almost 
have  been  alluding  to  some  harmless  domestic  animal.  Natalie's 
color  deepened.  Her  hand  pressed  Launce's  hand  gently. 

Turlington  still  persisted. 

"I  must  once  more  request  —  seriously  request  —  that  you  will 
check  this  growing  intimacy.  I  don't  object  to  your  asking  him  to 
the  house  when  you  ask  other  friends.  I  only  wish  you  (and  expect 
you)  to  stop  his  '  dropping  in,'  as  it  is  called,  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
or  evening  when  he  may  have  nothing  to  do.  Is  that  understood 
between  us  ?" 

"  If  you  make  a  point  of  it,  Richard,  of  course  it's  understood 
between  us." 

Launce  looked  at  Natalie,  as  weak  Sir  Joseph  consented  in  those 
words. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  he  whispered. 

Natalie  hung  her  head  in  silence.  There  was  a  pause  in  the  con- 
versation on  deck.  The  two  gentlemen  walked  away  slowly  toward 
the  forward  part  of  the  vessel. 

Launce  pursued  his  advantage. 

"  Your  father  leaves  us  no  alternative,"  he  said.  "  The  door  will 
be  closed  against  me  as  soon  as  we  get  on  shore.  If  I  lose  you, 
Natalie,  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me.  My  profession  may  go 
to  the  devil.  I  have  nothing  left  worth  living  for." 

"  Hush!  hush  !  don't  talk  in  that  way!" 

Launce  tried  the  soothing  influence  of  persuasion  once  more. 

"  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  people  in  our  situation  have  married 
privately  —  and  have  been  forgiven  afterward,"  he  went  on.  "I 
won't  ask  you  to  do  any  thing  in  a  hurry.  I  will  be  guided  entire- 
ly by  your  wishes.  All  I  want  to  quiet  my  mind  is  to  know  that 
you  are  mine.  Do,  do,  do  make  me  feel  sure  that  Richard  Turling- 
ton can't  take  you  away  from  me." 

"  Don't  press  me,  Launce."  She  dropped  on  the  locker.  "  See  !" 
she  said.  "  It  makes  me  tremble  only  to  think  of  it !" 

"  Who  are  you  afraid  of,  darling  ?     Not  your  father,  surely  ?" 

"  Poor  papa  !  I  wonder  whether  he  would  be  hard  on  me  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  ?"  She  stopped ;  her  moistening  eyes  looked 
up  imploringly  in  Launce's  face.  "  Don't  press  me !''  she  repeated 
faintly.  "  You  know  it's  wrong.  We  should  have  to  confess  it — 
and  then  what  would  happen  ?"  She  paused  again.  Her  eyes  wan- 


HISS   OR  MRS.?  319 

dered  nervously  to  the  deck.  Her  voice  dropped  to  its  lowest  tones. 
"  Think  of  Richard !"  she  said,  and  shuddered  at  the  terrors  which 
that  name  conjured  up.  Before  it  was  possible  to  say  a  quieting 
word  to  her,  she  was  again  on  her  feet.  Richard's  name  had  sud- 
denly recalled  to  her  memory  Launce's  mysterious  allusion,  at  the 
outset  of  the  interview,  to  the  owner  of  the  yacht.  "  What  was 
that  you  said  about  Richard  just  now  ?"  she  asked.  "  You  saw 
something  (or  heard  something)  strange  while  papa  was  telling  his 
story.  What  was  it  ?" 

"  I  noticed  Richard's  face,  Natalie,  when  your  father  told  us  that 
the  man  overboard  was  not  one  of  the  pilot-boat's  crew.  He  turned 
ghastly  pale.  He  looked  guilty — " 

"'Guilty?    Of  what?" 

"  He  was  present — I  am  certain  of  it — when  the  sailor  was  thrown 
into  the  sea.  For  all  I  know,  he  may  have  been  the  man  who  did  it." 

Natalie  started  back  in  horror. 

"  Oh,  Launcc  !  Launce !  that  is  too  bad.  You  may  not  like  Rich- 
ard— you  may  treat  Richard  as  your  enemy.  But  to  say  such  a  hor- 
rible thing  of  him  as  that —  It's  not  generous.  It's  not  like  you." 

"  If  you  had  seen  him,  you  would  have  said  it  too.  I  mean  to 
make  inquiries  —  in  your  father's  interests  as  well  as  in  ours.  My 
brother  knows  one  of  the  Commissioners  of  Police,  and  my  brother 
can  get  it  done  for  me.  Turlington  has  not  always  been  in  the 
Levant  trade — I  know  that  already." 

"  For  shame,  Launce !  for  shame  !" 

The  footsteps  on  deck  were  audible  coming  back.  Natalie  sprang 
to  the  door  leading  into  the  cabin.  Launce  stopped  her,  as  she  laid 
her  hand  on  the  lock.  The  footsteps  went  straight  on  toward  the 
stern  of  the  vessel.  Launce  clasped  both  arms  round  her.  Natalie 
gave  way. 

"  Don't  drive  me  to  despair  !"  he  said.  "  This  is  my  last  oppor- 
tunity. I  don't  ask  you  to  say  at  once  that  you  will  marry  me,  I 
only  ask  you  to  think  of  it.  My  darling !  my  angel !  will  you  think 
of  it  ?" 

As  he  put  the  question,  they  might  have  heard  (if  they  had  not 
been  too  completely  engrossed  in  each  other  to  listen)  the  footsteps 
returning — one  pair  of  footsteps  only  this  time.  Natalie's  prolonged 
absence  had  begun  to  surprise  her  aunt,  and  had  roused  a  certain 
vague  distrust  in  Richard's  mind.  He  walked  back  again  along 
the  deck  by  himself.  He  looked  absently  in  the  main  cabin  as  he 
passed  it.  The  store  -  room  sky  -  light  came  next.  In  his  present 
frame  of  mind,  would  he  look  absently  into  the  store-room  too  ? 

"  Let  me  go !"  said  Natalie. 

Launce  only  answered,  "  Say  yes,"  and  held  her  as  if  he  would 
never  let  her  go  again. 


320  MISS   OE  MRS.? 

At  the  same  moment  Miss  Lavinia's  voice  rose  shrill  from  the 
deck  calling  for  Natalie.  There  was  but  one  way  of  getting  free 
from  him.  She  said,  "  I'll  think  of  it."  Upon  that,  he  kissed  her 
and  let  her  go. 

The  door  had  barely  closed  on  her  when  the  lowering  face  of 
Richard  Turlington  appeared  on  a  level  with  the  side  of  the  sky- 
light, looking  down  into  the  store-room  at  Launce. 

"  Halloo  !"  he  called  out  roughly.  "  What  are  you  doing  in  the 
steward's  room  ?" 

Launce  took  up  a  box  of  matches  on  the  dresser.  "  I'm  getting  a 
light,"  he  answered  readily. 

"  I  allow  nobody  below,  forward  of  the  main  cabin,  without  my 
leave.  The  steward  has  permitted  a  breach  of  discipline  on  board 
my  vessel.  The  steward  will  leave  my  service." 

"  The  steward  is  not  to  blame." 

"  I  am  the  judge  of  that.     Not  you." 

Launce  opened  his  lips  to  reply.  An  outbreak  between  the  two 
men  appeared  to  be  inevitable,  when  the  sailing-master  of  the  yacht 
joined  his  employer  on  deck,  and  directed  Turlington's  attention  to 
a  question  which  is  never  to  be  trifled  with  at  sea,  the  question  of 
wind  and  tide. 

The  yacht  was  then  in  the  Bristol  Channel,  at  the  entrance  to 
Bideford  Bay.  The  breeze,  fast  freshening,  was  also  fast  changing 
the  direction  from  which  it  blew.  The  favorable  tide  had  barely 
three  hours  more  to  run. 

"  The  wind's  shifting,  sir,"  said  the  sailing-master.  "  I'm  afraid 
we  sha'n't  get  round  the  point  this  tide,  unless  we  lay  her  off  on  the 
other  tack." 

Turlington  shook  his  head. 

"  There  are  letters  waiting  for  me  at  Bideford,"  he  said.  "  "We 
have  lost  two  days  in  the  calm.  I  must  send  ashore  to  the  post- 
office,  whether  we  lose  the  tide  or  not." 

The  vessel  held  on  her  course.  Off  the  port  of  Bideford,  the  boat 
was  sent  ashore  to  the  post-office,  the  yacht  standing  off  and  on, 
waiting  the  appearance  of  the  letters.  In  the  shortest  time  in  which 
it  was  possible  to  bring  them  on  board  the  letters  were  in  Turling- 
ton's hands. 

The  men  were  hauling  the  boat  up  to  the  davits,  the  yacht  was 
already  heading  off  from  the  land,  when  Turlington  startled  every 
body  by  one  peremptory  word — "  Stop  !" 

He  had  thrust  all  his  letters  but  one  into  the  pocket  of  his  sailing- 
jacket,  without  reading  them.  The  one  letter  which  he  had  opened 
he  held  in  his  closed  hand.  Rage  was  in  his  staring  eyes,  consterna- 
tion was  on  his  pale  lips. 

"  Lower  the  boat !"  he  shouted ;  "  I  must  get  to  London  to-night." 


HISS   OB   MBS.?  321 

He  stopped  Sir  Joseph,  approaching  him  with  opened  mouth. 
"  There's  no  time  for  questions  and  answers.  I  must  get  back." 
He  swung  himself  over  the  side  of  the  yacht,  and  addressed  the 
sailing-master  from  the  boat.  "  Save  the  tide  if  you  can ;  if  you 
can't,  put  them  ashore  to-morrow  at  Minehcad  or  Watchet — wherever 
they  like."  He  beckoned  to  Sir  Joseph  to  lean  over  the  bulwark, 
and  hear  something  he  had  to  say  in  private.  "  Remember  vhat  I 
told  you  about  Launcelot  Linzie !"  he  whispered  fiercely.  His  part- 
ing look  was  for  Natalie.  He  spoke  to  her  with  a  strong  constraint 
on  himself,  as  gently  as  he  could.  "  Don't  be  alarmed ;  I  shall  see 
you  in  London."  He  seated  himself  in  the  boat  and  took  the  tiller. 
The  last  words  they  heard  him  say  were  words  urging  the  men  at 
the  oars  to  lose  no  time.  He  was  invariably  brutal  with  the  men. 
"Pull,  you  lazy  beggars!"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  oath.  "Pull  for 
your  lives  1" 


THIRD  SCENE. 

THE  MONEY  MARKET. 

LET  us  be  serious. — Business ! 

The  new  scene  plunges  us  head  foremost  into  the  affairs  of  the 
Levant  trading-house  of  Pizzituti,  Turlington,  and  Branca.  What 
on  earth  do  we  know  about  the  Levant  Trade  ?  Courage !  If  we 
have  ever  known  what  it  is  to  want  money,  we  are  perfectly  famil- 
iar with  the  subject  at  starting.  The  Levant  Trade  does  occasion- 
ally get  into^difficulties. — Turlington  wanted  money. 

The  letter  which  had  been  handed  to  him  on  board  the  yacht 
was  from  his  third  partner,  Mr.  Branca,  and  was  thus  expressed : 

"  A  crisis  in  the  trade.  All  right,  so  far — except  our  business  with 
the  small  foreign  firms.  Bills  to  meet  from  those  quarters,  (say)  forty 
thousand  pounds — and,  I  fear,  no  remittances  to  cover  them.  Par- 
ticulars stated  in  another  letter  addressed  to  you  at  Post-office,  Ilfra- 
coml>e.  I  am  quite  broken  down  with  anxiety,  and  confined  to  my 
bed.  Pizzituti  is  still  detained  at  Smyrna.  Come  back  at  once." 

The  same  evening  Turlington  was  at  his  office  in  Austin  Friars, 
investigating  the  state  of  affairs,  with  his  head  clerk  to  help  him. 

Stated  briefly,  the  business  of  the  firm  was  of  the  widely  miscel- 
laneous sort.  They  plied  a  brisk  trade  in  a  vast  variety  of  com- 
modities. Nothing  came  amiss  to  them,  from  Manchester  cotton 
manufactures  to  Smyrna  figs.  They  had  branch  houses  at  Alexan- 
dria and  Odessa,  and  correspondents  here,  there,  and  everywhere, 
along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  in  the  ports  of  the  IPlrTt. 
These  correspondents  were  the  persons  alluded  to  in  Mr.  Branca's 
letter  as  u  small  foreign  firms ;"  and  they  had  produced  the  serious 


322  MISS   OB  MBS.? 

financial  crisis  in  the  affairs  of  the  great  house  in  Austin  Friars, 
which  had  hurried  Turlington  up  to  London. 

Every  one  of  these  minor  firms  claimed  and  received  the  priv- 
ilege of  drawing  bills  on  Pizzituti,  Turlington,  and  Branca  for 
amounts  varying  from  four  to  six  thousand  pounds  —  on  no  better 
security  than  a  verbal  understanding  that  the  money  to  pay  the 
bills  should  be  forwarded  before  they  fell  due.  Competition,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  insanely  reckless  system 
of  trading.  The  native  firms  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  that  they  would 
decline  to  transact  business  with  any  house  in  the  trade  which  re- 
fused to  grant  them  their  privilege.  In  the  case  of  Turlington's 
house,  the  foreign  merchants  had  drawn  their  bills  on  him  for  sums 
large  in  the  aggregate,  if  not  large  in  themselves ;  had  long  since 
turned  those  bills  into  cash  in  their  own  markets,  for  their  own  ne- 
cessities ;  and  had  now  left  the  money  which  their  paper  represent- 
ed to  be  paid  by  their  London  correspondents  as  it  fell  due.  In 
some  instances,  they  had  sent  nothing  but  promises  and  excuses. 
In  others,  they  had  forwarded  drafts  on  firms  which  had  failed  al- 
ready, or  which  were  about  to  fail,  in  the  crisis.  After  first  exhaust- 
ing his  resources  in  ready  money,  Mr.  Branca  had  provided  for  the 
more  pressing  necessities,  by  pledging  the  credit  of  the  house,  so  far 
as  he  could  pledge  it  without  exciting  suspicion  of  the  truth.  This 
done,  there  were  actually  left,  between  that  time  and  Christmas,  lia- 
bilities to  be  met  to  the  extent  of  forty  thousand  pounds,  without  a 
farthing  in  hand  to  pay  that  formidable  debt. 

After  working  through  the  night,  this  was  the  conclusion  at 
which  Richard  Turlington  arrived,  when  the  rising  sun  looked  in 
at  him  through  the  windows  of  his  private  room. 

The  whole  force  of  the  blow  had  fallen  on  him.  The  share  of  his 
partners  in  the  business  was  of  the  most  trifling  nature.  The  capi- 
tal was  his,  the  risk  was  his-.  Personally  and  privately,  he  had  to 
find  the  money,  or  to  confront  the  one  other  alternative — ruin. 

How  was  the  money  to  be  found  ? 

With  his  position  in  the  City,  he  had  only  to  go  to  the  famous 
money-lending  and  discounting  house  of  Bulpit  Brothers — reported 
to  "  turn  over  "  millions  in  their  business  every  year — and  to  supply 
himself  at  once  with  the  necessary  funds.  Forty  thousand  pounds 
was  a  trifling  transaction  to  Bulpit  Brothers. 

Having  got  the  money,  how,  in  the  present  state  of  his  trade,  was 
the  loan  to  be  paid  back  ? 

His  thoughts  reverted  to  his  marriage  with  Natalie. 

"  Curious !"  he  said  to  himself,  recalling  his  conversation  with  Sir 
Joseph  on  board  the  yacht.  "  Graybrooke  told  me  he  would  give 
his  daughter  half  his  fortune  on  her  marriage.  Half  Graybrooke's 
fortune  happens  to  be  just  forty  thousand  pounds  !"  He  took  a  turn 


MISS  OB  MBS.?  323 

In  the  room.  No !  It  was  impossible  to  apply  to  Sir  Joseph.  Once 
shake  Sir  Joseph's  conviction  of  his  commercial  solidity,  and  the 
marriage  would  be  certainly  deferred — if  not  absolutely  broken  off. 
Sir  Joseph's  fortune  could  be  made  available,  in  the  present  emer- 
gency, in  but  one  way — he  might  use  it  to  repay  his  debt.  He  had 
only  to  make  the  date  at  which  the  loan  expired  coincide  with  the 
date  of  his  marriage,  and  there  was  his  father-in-law's  money  at  his 
disposal,  or  at  his  wife's  disposal  —  which  meant  the  same  thing. 
"  It's  well  I  pressed  Graybrooke  about  the  marriage  when  I  did !" 
he  thought.  "  I  can  borrow  the  money  at  a  short  date.  In  three 
months  from  this  Natalie  will  be  my  wife." 

He  drove  to  his  club  to  get  breakfast,  with  his  mind  cleared,  for 
the  time  being,  of  all  its  anxieties  but  one. 

Knowing  where  he  could  procure  the  loan,  he  was  by  no  means 
equally  sure  of  being  able  to  find  the  security  on  which  he  could 
borrow  the  money.  Living  up  to  his  income;  having  no  expecta- 
tions from  any  living  creature ;  possessing  in  landed  property  only 
some  thirty  or  forty  acres  in  Somersetshire,  with  a  quaint  little 
dwelling,  half  farm-house,  half-cottage,  attached — he  was  incapable 
of  providing  the  needful  security  from  his  own  personal  resources. 
To  appeal  to  wealthy  friends  in  the  City  would  be  to  let  those 
friends  into  the  secret  of  his  embarrassments,  and  to  put  his  credit 
in  peril.  He  finished  his  breakfast,  and  went  back  to  Austin  Friars 
— failing  entirely,  so  far,  to  see  how  he  was  to  remove  the  last  ob- 
stacle now  left  in  his  way. 

The  doors  were  open  to  the  public ;  business  had  begun.  He  had 
not  been  ten  minutes  in  his  room  before  the  shipping-clerk  knocked 
at  the  door  and  interrupted  him,  still  absorbed  in  his  own  anxious 
thoughts. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  irritably. 

"  Duplicate  Bills  of  Lading,  sir,"  answered  the  clerk,  placing  the 
documents  on  his  master's  table. 

Found !  There  was  the  security  on  his  writing-desk,  staring  him 
in  the  face !  He  dismissed  the  clerk  and  examined  the  papers. 

They  contained  an  account  of  goods  shipped  to  the  London  house 
on  board  vessels  sailing  from  Smyrna  and  Odessa,  and  they  were 
signed  by  the  masters  of  the  ships,  who  thereby  acknowledged  the 
receipt  of  the  goods,  and  undertook  to  deliver  them  safely  to  the 
persons  owning  them,  as  directed.  First  copies  of  these  papers  had 
already  been  placed  in  the  possession  of  the  London  house.  The  du- 
plicates had  now  followed,  in  case  of  accident.  Richard  Turlington 
instantly  determined  to  make  the  duplicates  serve  as  his  security, 
keeping  the  first  copies  privately  under  lock  and  key,  to  be  used  in 
obtaining  possession  of  the  goods  at  the  customary  time.  The  fraud 
was  a  fraud  in  appearance  only.  The  security  was  a  pure  formality. 


324  MISS   OR  MES.  ? 

His  marriage  would  supply  him  with  the  funds  needed  for  repaying 
the  money,  and  the  profits  of  his  business  would  provide,  in  course 
of  time,  for  restoring  the  dowry  of  his  wife.  It  was  simply  a  ques- 
tion of  preserving  his  credit  by  means  which  were  legitimately  at 
his  disposal.  Within  the  lax  limits  of  mercantile  morality,  Richard 
Turlington  had  a  conscience.  He  put  on  his  hat  and  took  his  false 
security  to  the  money-lenders,  without  feeling  at  all  lowered  in  his 
own  estimation  as  an  honest  man. 

Bulpit  Brothers,  long  desirous  of  having  such  a  name  as  his  on 
their  books,  received  him  with  open  arms.  The  security  (covering 
the  amount  borrowed)  was  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
money  was  lent,  for  three  months,  with  a  stroke  of  the  pen.  Tur- 
lington stepped  out  again  into  the  street,  and  confronted  the  City 
of  London  in  the  character  of  the  noblest  work  of  mercantile  cre- 
ation— a  solvent  man.* 

The  Fallen  Angel,  walking  invisibly  behind,  in  Richard's  shadow, 
flapped  his  crippled  wings  in  triumph.  From  that  moment  the 
Fallen  Angel  had  got  him. 


FOURTH  SCENE. 

MTJSWELL  HILL. 

THE  next  day  Turlington  drove  to  the  suburbs,  on  the  chance  of 
finding  the  Graybrookes  at  home  again.  Sir  Joseph  disliked  Lon- 
don, and  could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  live  any  nearer  to  the  me- 
tropolis than  Muswell  Hill.  When  Natalie  wanted  a  change,  and 
languished  for  balls,  theatres,  flower-shows,  and  the  like,  she  had  a 
room  especially  reserved  for  her  in  the  house  of  Sir  Joseph's  mar- 
ried sister,  Mrs.  Sancroft,  living  in  that  central  deep  of  the  fashion- 
able whirlpool  known  among  mortals  as  Berkeley  Square. 

On  his  way  through  the  streets,  Turlington  encountered  a  plain 
proof  that  the  Graybrookes  must  have  returned.  He  was  passed  by 
Launce,  driving,  in  company  with  a  gentleman,  in  a  cab.  The  gen- 
tleman was  Launce's  brother,  and  the  two  were  on  their  way  to  the 
Commissioners  of  Police  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for 
instituting  an  inquiry  into  Turlington's  early  life. 

Arrived  at  the  gate  of  the  villa,  the  information  received  only  par- 
tially fulfilled  the  visitor's  expectations.  The  family  had  returned 


*  Tt  may  not  be  amiss  to  remind  the  incredulous  reader  that  a  famous  firm 
in  the  City  accepted  precisely  the  same  security  as  that  here  accepted  by 
Buipit  Brothers,  with  the  same  sublime  indifference  to  troubling  them- 
selves by  making  any  inquiry  about  it. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  325 

on  the  previous  evening.  Sir  Joseph  and  his  sister  were  at  home, 
but  Natalie  was  away  again  already.  She  had  driven  into  town  to 
lunch  with  her  aunt. 

Turlington  went  into  the  house. 

"  Have  you  lost  any  money  ?"  Those  were  the  first  words  uttered 
by  Sir  Joseph  when  he  and  Richard  met  again,  after  the  parting  on 
board  the  yacht. 

•  "  Not  a  farthing.  I  might  have  lost  seriously,  if  I  had  not  got 
back  in  time  to  set  things  straight.  Stupidity  on  the  part  of  my 
people  left  in  charge — nothing  more.  It's  all  right  now." 

Sir  Joseph  lifted  his  eyes,  with  heartfelt  devotion,  to  the  ceiling. 
"  Thank  God,  Richard  !"  he  said,  in  tones  of  the  deepest  feeling. 
He  rang  the  bell.  "  Tell  Miss  Graybrooke  Mr.  Turlington  is  here." 
He  turned  again  to  Richard.  "Lavinia  is  like  me  —  Lavinia  has 
been  so  anxious  about  you.  We  have  both  of  us  passed  a  sleepless 
night."  Miss  Lavinia  came  in.  Sir  Joseph  hurried  to  meet  her, 
and  took  her  affectionately  by  both  hands.  "  My  dear !  the  best  of 
all  good  news,  Richard  has  not  lost  a  farthing."  Miss  Lavinia  lift- 
ed her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  with  heartfelt  devotion,  and  said,  "  Thank 
God,  Richard  !" — like  the  echo  of  her  brother's  voice ;  a  little  late, 
perhaps,  for  its  reputation  as  an  echo,  but  accurate  to  half  a  note  in 
its  perfect  repetition  of  sound. 

Turlington  asked  the  question  which  it  had  been  his  one  object 
to  put  in  paying  his  visit  to  Muswell  Hill. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  Natalie  ?" 

"  This  morning,"  replied  Sir  Joseph.  "  An  opportunity  offered  itself 
after  breakfast.  I  took  advantage  of  it,  Richard — you  shall  hear  how." 

He  settled  himself  in  his  chair  for  one  of  his  interminable  stories ; 
he  began  his  opening  sentence — and  stopped,  struck  dumb  at  the 
first  word.  There  was  an  unexpected  obstacle  in  the  way — his  sis- 
ter was  not  attending  to  him ;  his  sister  had  silenced  him  at  start- 
ing. The  story  touching,  this  time,  on  the  question  of  marriage, 
Miss  Lavinia  had  her  woman's  interest  in  seeing  full  justice  done  to 
the  subject.  She  seized  on  her  brother's  narrative  as  on  property 
in  her  own  right. 

"  Joseph  should  have  told  you,"  she  began,  addressing  herself  to 
Turlington,  "  that  our  dear  girl  was  unusually  depressed  in  spirits 
this  morning.  Quite  in  the  right  frame  of  mind  for  a  little  serious 
talk  about  her  future  life.  She  ate  nothing  at  breakfast,  poor  child, 
but  a  morsel  of  dry  toast." 

"And  marmalade,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  striking  in  at  the  first  cppor- 
tunity.  The  story,  on  this  occasion,  being  Miss  Lavinia's  story,  the 
polite  contradictions  necessary  to  its  successful  progress  were  natu- 
rally transferred  from  the  sister  to  the  brother,  and  became  contra- 
dictions on  Sir  Joseph's  side. 


326  MISS  OK  MRS.  ? 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  gently,  "  if  you  will  have  it,  Joseph — 
jam." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  persisted  Sir  Joseph ;  "  marmalade."  . 

"  What  does  it  matter,  brother  ?" 

"  Sister !  the  late  great  and  good  Doctor  Johnson  said  accuracy 
ought  always  to  be  studied  even  in  the  most  trifling  things." 

"  You  will  have  your  way,  Joseph  " — (this  was  the  formula — an- 
swering to  Sir  Joseph's  "Let  us  waive  the  point"  —  which  Miss 
Lavinia  used,  as  a  means  of  conciliating  her  brother,  and  getting  a 
fresh  start  for  her  story).  u  Well,  we  took  dear  Natalie  out  between 
us,  after  breakfast,  for  a  little  walk  in  the  grounds.  My  brother 
opened  the  subject  with  infinite  delicacy  and  tact.  '  Circumstances,' 
he  said, '  into  which  it  was  not  then  necessary  to  enter,  made  it  very 
desirable,  young  as  she  was,  to  begin  to  think  of  her  establishment 
in  life.'  And  then  lie  referred,  Richard  (so  nicely),  to  your  faithful 
and  devoted  attachment — " 

"Excuse  me,  Lavinia.  I  began  with  Richard's  attachment,  and 
then  I  got  on  to  her  establishment  in  life." 

"Excuse  me,  Joseph.  You  managed  it  much  more  delicately  than 
you  suppose.  You  didn't  drag  Richard  in  by  the  head  and  shoul- 
ders in  that  way." 

"  Lavinia !  I  began  with  Richard." 

"  Joseph  !  your  memory  deceives  you." 

Turlington's  impatience  broke  through  all  restraint. 

"  How  did  it  end  ?"  he  asked.  "  Did  you  propose  to  her  that  we 
should  be  married  in  the  first  week  of  the  New  Year  ?" 

"  Yes !"  said  Miss  Lavinia. 

"  No  !"  said  Sir  Joseph. 

The  sister  looked  at  the  brother  with  an  expression  of  affection- 
ate surprise.  The  brother  looked  at  the  sister  with  a  fund  of  ami- 
able contradiction,  expressed  in  a  low  bow. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  to  deny,  Joseph,  that  you  told  Natalie  we 
had  decided  on  the  first  week  in  the  New  Year  ?" 

"  I  deny  the  New  Year,  Lavinia.     I  said  early  in  January." 

"  You  will  have  your  way,  Joseph !  We  were  walking  in  the 
shrubbery  at  the  time.  I  had  our  dear  girl's  arm  in  mine,  and  I 
felt  it  tremble.  She  suddenly  stopped.  '  Oh,'  she  said,  '  not  so 
soon  !'  I  said, '  My  dear,  consider  Richard  !'  She  turned  to  her  fa- 
ther. She  said,  '  Don't,  pray  don't  press  it  so  soon,  papa !  I  re- 
spect Richard  ;  I  like  Richard  as  your  true  and  faithful  friend ;  but 
I  don't  love  him  as  I  ought  to  love  him  if  I  am  to  be  his  wife.' 
Imagine  her  talking  in  that  way !  What  could  she  possibly  know 
about  it  ?  Of  course  we  both  laughed — " 

"  You  laughed,  Lavinia." 

"You  laughed,  Joseph." 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  327 

"  Get  on,  for  God's  sake !"  cried  Turlington,  striking  his  hand 
passionately  on  the  table  by  which  he  was  sitting.  "  Don't  mad- 
den me  by  contradict  in-,'  each  other!  Did  she  give  way  or  not?" 

.Miss  Laviniu  turned  to  her  brother.  "Contradicting  each  other, 
Joseph  !"  she  exclaimed,  lifting  her  hands  in  blank  amazement. 

14  Contradicting  each  other !"  repeated  Sir  Joseph,  equally  aston- 
ished on  his  side.  "  My  dear  Richard,  what  can  you  be  thinking 
of?  I  contradict  my  sister !  We  never  disagreed  in  our  lives." 

"  I  contradict  my  brother !  We  have  never  had  a  cross  word  be- 
tween us  from  the  time  when  we  were  children." 

Turlington  internally  cursed  his  own  irritable  temper. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  —  both  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying.  Make  some  allowance  for  me.  All  my  hopes 
in  life  are  centred  in  Natalie;  and  you  have  just  told  me  (in  her 
own  words,  Miss  Lavinia)  that  she  doesn't  love.  You  don't  mean 
any  harm,  I  dare  say  ;  but  you  cut  me  to  the  heart." 

This  confession,  and  the  look  that  accompanied  it,  touched  the 
ready  sympathies  of  the  two  old  people  in  the  right  place.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  story  dropped  between  them  by  common  consent. 
They  vied  with  each  other  in  saying  the  comforting  words  which 
would  allay  their  dear  Richard's  anxiety.  How  little  he  knew  of 
young  girls.  How  could  he  be  so  foolish,  poor  fellow  !  as  to  attach 
any  serious  importance  to  what  Natalie  had  said  ?  As  if  a  young 
creature  in  her  teens  knew  the  state  of  her  own  heart !  Protesta- 
tions and  entreaties  were  matters  of  course,  in  such  cases.  Tears 
even  might  be  confidently  expected  from  a  right-minded  girl.  It 
had  all  ended  exactly  as  Richard  would  have  wished  it  to  end.  Sir 
Joseph  had  said,  "  My  child !  this  is  a  matter  of  experience ;  love 
will  come  when  you  are  married."  And  Miss  Lavinia  had  added, 
"  Dear  Natalie,  if  you  remembered  your  poor  mother  -as  I  remember 
her,  you  would  know  that  your  fathers  experience  is  to  be  relied 
on."  In  that  way  they  had  put  it  to  her;  and  she  had  hung  her 
head  and  had  given — all  that  maiden  modesty  could  be  expected  to 
give — a  silent  consent.  "  The  wedding-day  was  fixed  for  the  first 
week  in  the  New  Year."  ("  No,  Joseph  ;  not  January — the  New 
Year.")  "  And  God  bless  you,  Richard  !  and  may  your  married  life 
be  a  long  and  happy  one." 

So  the  average  ignorance  of  human  nature,  and  the  average  be- 
lief in  conventional  sentiment,  complacently  contemplated  the  sacri- 
fice of  one  more  victim  on  the  all-devouring  altar  of  Marriage !  So 
Sir  Joseph  and  his  sister  provided  Launcelot  Linzie  with  the  one 
argument  which  he  wanted  to  convince  Natalie :  "  Choose  between 
making  the  misery  of  your  life  by  marrying  him,  and  making  the 
happiness  of  your  life  by  marrying  wie." 

44  When  shall  I  see  her  ?"  asked  Turlington,  with  Miss  Lavinia  (in 

14 


326  MISS   OK   MRS.  t 

tears  which  did  her  credit)  in  possession  of  one  of  his  hands,  and 
Sir  Joseph  (in  tears  which  did  him  credit)  in  possession  of  the  other. 

"  She  will  be  back  to  dinner,  dear  Richard.     Stay  and  dine." 

"  Thank  you.  I  must  go  into  the  City  first.  I  will  come  back 
and  dine." 

With  that  arrangement  in  prospect,  he  left  them. 

An  hour  later  a  telegram  arrived  from  Natalie.  She  had  consent- 
ed to  dine,  as  well  as  lunch,  in  Berkeley  Square  —  sleeping  there 
that  night,  and  returning  the  next  morning.  Her  father  instantly 
telegraphed  back  by  the  messenger,  insisting  on  Natalie's  return  to 
Muswell  Hill  that  evening,  in  time  to  meet  Richard  Turlington  at 
dinner. 

"  Quite  right,  Joseph,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  looking  over  her  broth- 
er's shoulder,  while  he  wrote  the  telegram. 

"  She  is  showing  a  disposition  to  coquet  with  Richard,"  rejoined 
Sir  Joseph,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knew  female  human  nature 
in  its  remotest  corners.  "  My  telegram,  Lavinia,  will  have  its  effect." 

Sir  Joseph  was  quite  right.  His  telegram  had  its  effect.  It  not 
only  brought  his  daughter  back  to  dinner — it  produced  another  re- 
sult which  his  prophetic  faculty  had  altogether  failed  to  foresee. 

The  message  reached  Berkeley  Square  at  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. Let  us  follow  the  message. 


FIFTH  SCENE. 

THE   8QUAEE. 

BETWEEN  four  and  five  in  the  afternoon — when  the  women  of  the 
Western  regions  are  in  their  carriages,  and  the  men  are  at  their 
clubs — London  presents  few  places  more  conveniently  adapted  for 
purposes  of  private  talk  than  the  solitary  garden  inclosure  of  a 
square. 

On  the  day  when  Richard  Turlington  paid  his  visit  to  Muswell 
Hill,  two  ladies  (with  a  secret  between  them)  unlocked  the  gate  of 
the  railed  garden  in  Berkeley  Square.  They  shut  the  gate  after 
entering  the  inclosure,  but  carefully  forbore  to  lock  it  as  well,  and 
carefully  restricted  their  walk  to  the  westward  side  of  the  garden. 
One  of  them  was  Natalie  Graybrooke.  The  other  was  Mrs.  San- 
croft's  eldest  daughter.  A  certain  temporary  interest  attached,  in 
the  estimation  of  society,  to  this  young  lady.  She  had  sold  well  in 
the  marriage  market.  In  other  words,  she  had  recently  been  raised 
to  the  position  of  Lord  Winwood's  second  wife ;  his  lordship  con- 
ferring on  the  bride  not  only  the  honors  of  the  peerage,  but  the  ad- 
ditional distinction  of  being  stepmother  to  his  three  single  daugh- 


MISS    OR   MRS.?  329 

ters,  all  older  than  herself.  In  person,  Lady  Winwood  was  little 
and  fair.  In  character,  she  was  dashing  and  resolute — a  complete 
contrast  to  Natalie,  and  (on  that  very  account)  Natalie's  bosom 
friend. 

"  My  dear,  one  ambitious  marriage  in  the  family  is  quite  enough  ! 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  you  shall  marry  the  man  you  love. 
Don't  tell  me  your  courage  is  failing  you — the  excuse  is  contempti- 
ble ;  I  decline  to  receive  it.  Natalie  !  the  men  have  a  phrase  which 
exactly  describes  your  character.  You  want  back-bone!" 

The  bonnet  of  the  lady  who  expressed  herself  in  these  perempto- 
ry terms  barely  reached  the  height  of  Natalie's  shoulder.  Natalie 
might  have  blown  the  little  airy,  light-haired,  unsubstantial  crea- 
ture over  the  railings  of  the  garden  if  she  had  taken  a  good  long 
breath  and  stooped  low  enough.  But  who  ever  met  with  a  tall 
woman  who  had  a  will  of  her  own  ?  Natalie's  languid  brown  eyes 
looked  softly  down  in  submissive  attention  from  an  elevation  of  five 
feet  seven.  Lady  Winwood's  brisk  blue  eyes  looked  brightly  up 
in  despotic  command  from  an  elevation  of  four  feet  eleven  (in  her 
shoes). 

"  You  are  trifling  with  Mr.  Linzie,  my  dear.  Mr.  Linzie  is  a  nice 
fellow.  I  like  him.  I  won't  have  that." 

"Louisa!" 

"  Mr.  Turlington  has  nothing  to  recommend  him.  He  is  not  a 
well-bred  old  gentleman  of  exalted  rank.  He  is  only  an  odious 
brute  who  happens  to  have  made  money.  You  shall  not  marry  Mr. 
Turlington.  And  you  sJutll  marry  Launcelot  Linzie." 

"  Will  you  let  me  speak,  Louisa  ?" 

"I  will  let  you  answer  —  nothing  more.  Didn't  you  come  cry- 
ing to  me  this  morning  ?  Didn't  you  say,  '  Louisa,  they  have  pro- 
nounced sentence  on  me !  I  am  to  be  married  in  the  first  week  of 
the  New  Year.  Help  me  out  of  it,  for  Heaven's  sake !'  You  said 
all  that,  and  more.  And  what  did  I  do  when  I  heard  your  story?" 

"  Oh,  you  were  so  kind — 

•  Kind  doesn't  half  express  it.  I  have  committed  crimes  on  your 
account.  I  have  deceived  my  husband  and  my  mother.  For  your 
sake  I  <^ot  mamma  to  ask  Mr.  Linzie  to  lunch  (as  my  friend !).  For 
your  sake  I  have  banished  my  unoffending  husband,  not  an  hour 
MINT,  to  his  club.  You  wretched  girl,  who  arranged  a  private  con- 
ference in  the  library  ?  Who  sent  Mr.  Linzie  off  to  consult  his  friend 
in  the  Temple  on  the  law  of  clandestine  marriage  ?  Who  suggested 
your  telegraphing  home,  and  stopping  here  for  the  night  ?  Who 
made  an  appointment  to  meet  your  young  man  privately  in  this 
detestable  place  in  ten  minutes'  time  ?  I  did  I  I  did !  I  did  I  All  in 
your  interests.  All  to  prevent  you  from  doing  what  I  have  done — 
marrying  to  please  your  family  instead  of  to  please  yourself.  (I 


330  MISS    OR   MRS.  ? 

don't  complain,  mind,  of  Lord  Winwood,  or  of  his  daughters.  He 
is  charming ;  his  daughters  I  shall  tame  in  course  of  time.  You  are 
different.  And  Mr.  Turlington,  as  I  observed  before,  is  a  brute.) 
Very  well.  Now  what  do  you  owe  me  on  your  side  ?  You  owe  it 
to  me  at  least  to  know  your  own  mind.  You  don't  know  it.  You 
coolly  inform  me  that  you  daren't  run  the  risk  after  all,  and  that 
you  can't  face  the  consequences  on  second  thoughts.  I'll  tell  you 
what !  You  don't  deserve  that  nice  fellow,  who  worships  the  very 
ground  you  tread  on.  You  are  a  bread-and-butter  miss.  I  don't 
believe  you  are  fond  of  him !" 

"  Not  fond  of  him  !"  Natalie  stopped,  and  clasped  her  hands  in 
despair  of  finding  language  strong  enough  for  the  occasion.  At  the 
same  moment  the  sound  of  a  closing  gate  caught  her  ear.  She 
looked  round.  Launce  had  kept  his  appointment  before  his  time. 
Launce  was  in  the  garden,  rapidly  approaching  them. 

"  Now  for  the  Law  of  Clandestine  Marriage !"  said  Lady  Win- 
wood.  "  Mr.  Linzie,  we  will  take  it  sitting."  She  led  the  way  to 
one  of  the  benches  in  the  garden,  and  placed  Launce  between  Na- 
talie and  herself.  "  Well,  Chief  Conspirator,  have  you  got  the  Li- 
cense ?  No  ?  Does  it  cost  too  much  ?  Can  I  lend  you  the  money  ?" 

"It  costs  perjury,  Lady  Winwood,  in  my  case,"  said  Launce. 
"  Natalie  is  not  of  age.  I  can  only  get  a  License  by  taking  my 
oath  that  I  marry  her  with  her  father's  consent."  He  turned  pit- 
eously  to  Natalie.  "  I  couldn't  very  well  do  that,"  he  said,  in  the 
tone  of  a  man  who  feels  bound  to  make  an  apology,  "  could  I  ?" 
Natalie  shuddered ;  Lady  Winwood  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"In  your  place  a  woman  wouldn't  have  hesitated,"  her  ladyship 
remarked.  "  But  men  are  so  selfish.  Well !  I  suppose  there  is 
some  other  way  ?" 

"  Yes,  there  is  another  way,"  said  Launce.  "  But  there  is  a  hor- 
rid condition  attached  to  it — " 

"  Something  worse  than  perjury,  Mr.  Linzie  ?    Murder  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  directly,  Lady  Winwood.  The  marriage  comes  first. 
The  condition  follows.  There  is  only  one  chance  for  us.  We  must 
be  married  by  banns." 

"  Banns !"  cried  Natalie.  "  Why,  banns  are  publicly  proclaimed 
in  church !" 

"They  needn't  be  proclaimed  in  your  church,  you  goose,"  said 
Lady  Winwood.  "  And,  even  if  they  were,  nobody  would  be  the 
wiser.  You  may  trust  implicitly,  my  dear,  in  the  elocution  of  an 
English  clergyman !" 

"  That's  just  what  my  friend  said,"  cried  Launce.  " '  Take  a  lodg- 
ing near  a  large  parish  church,  in  a  remote  part  of  London ' — (this 
is  my  friend's  advice) — '  go  to  the  clerk,  tell  him  you  want  to  be 
married  by  banns,  and  say  you  belong  to  that  parish.  As  for  the 


MISS   OR   MBS.?  331 

lady,  in  your  place  I  should  simplify  it.  I  should  say  she  belonged 
to  the  parish  too.  Give  an  address,  and  have  some  one  there  to 
answer  questions.  How  is  the  clerk  to  know  ?  He  isn't  likely  to  be 
over-anxious  about  it — his  fee  is  eighteen-pence.  The  clerk  makes 
his  profit  out  of  you,  after  you  are  married.  The  same  rule  applies 
to  the  parson.  He  will  have  your  names  supplied  to  him  on  a  strip 
of  paper,  with  do/ens  of  other  names;  and  he  will  read  them  out 
all  together  in  one  inarticulate  jumble  in  church.  You  will  stand 
at  the  altar  when  your  time  comes,  with  Brown  and  Jones,  Nokes 
and  Styles,  Jack  and  Gill.  All  that  you  will  have  to  do  is,  to  take 
i  a iv  that  your  young  lady  doesn't  fall  to  Jack,  and  you  to  Gill,  by 
mistake — and  there  you  are,  married  by  banns.'  My  friend's  opin- 
ion, stated  in  his  own  words." 

Natalie  sighed,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  her  lap.  "We  shall  nev- 
er get  through  it,"  she  said,  despondingly. 

Lady  Win  wood  took  a  more  cheerful  view. 

"I  see  nothing  very  formidable  as  yet,  my  dear.  But  we  have 
still  to  hear  the  end  of  it.  You  mentioned  a  condition  just  now, 
Mr.  Linzie." 

44 1  am  coming  to  the  condition,  Lady  Winwood.  You  naturally 
suppose,  as  I  did,  that  I  put  Natalie  into  a  cab,  and  run  away  with 
her  from  the  church  door  ?" 

"  Certainly.  And  I  throw  an  old  shoe  after  you  for  luck,  and  go 
home  again." 

Launce  shook  his  head  ominously. 

"  Natalie  must  go  home  again  as  well  as  you  !" 

Lady  Winwood  started.  "  Is  that  the  condition  you  mentioned 
just  now  2"  she  asked. 

'•  That  is  the  condition.  I  may  marry  her  without  any  thing 
serious  coming  of  it.  But,  if  I  run  away  with  her  afterward,  and  if 
you  are  there,  aiding  and  abetting  me,  we  are  guilty  of  Abduction, 
and  we  may  stand,  side  by  side,  at  the  bar  of  the  Old  Bailey  to 
answer  for  it '." 

Natalie  sprang  to  her  feet  in  horror.  Lady  Winwood  held  up  one 
finger  warningly,  signing  to  her  to  let  Launce  go  on. 

"  Natalie  is  not  yet  sixteen  years  old,"  Launce  proceeded.  "  She 
must  go  straight  back  to  her  father's  house  from  the  church,  and  I 
must  wait  to  run  away  with  her  till  her  next  birthday.  When  she's 
turned  sixteen,  she's  ripe  for  elopement — not  an  hour  before.  There 
is  the  law  of  Abduction  !  Despotism  in  a  free  country — that's  what 
I  call  it !" 

Natalie  sat  down  again,  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"  It's  a  very  comforting  law,  /  think,"  she  said.  "  It  doesn't  force 
one  to  take  the  dreadful  step  of  running  away  from  home  all  at 
once.  It  gives  one  time  to  consider,  and  plan,  and  make  up  one's 


332  MISS   OR  MBS.? 

mind.  I  can  tell  you  this,  Launce,  if  I  am  to  be  persuaded  into 
marrying  you,  the  law  of  Abduction  is  the  only  thing  that  will  in- 
duce me  to  do  it.  You  ought  to  thank  the  law,  instead  of  abusing 
it." 

Launce  listened — without  conviction. 

"  It's  a  pleasant  prospect,"  he  said,  "  to  part  at  the  church  door, 
and  to  treat  my  own  wife  on  the  footing  of  a  young  lady  who  is  en- 
gaged to  marry  another  gentleman." 

"  Is  it  any  pleasanter  for  me"  retorted  Natalie,  "  to  have  Richard 
Turlington  courting  me,  when  I  am  all  the  time  your  wife  ?  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  do  it.  I  wish  I  was  dead  !" 

"  Come  !  come  !"  interposed  Lady  Winwood.  "  It's  time  to  be 
serious.  Natalie's  birthday,  Mr.  Linzie,  is  next  Christmas-day.  She 
will  be  sixteen — " 

"  At  seven  in  the  morning,"  said  Launce ;  "  I  got  that  out  of  Sir 
Joseph.  At  one  minute  past  seven,  Greenwich  mean  time,  we  may 
be  off  together.  I  got  that  out  of  the  lawyer." 

"And  it  isn't  an  eternity  to  wait  from  now  till  Christmas  -  day. 
You  get  that,  by  way  of  completing  the  list  of  your  acquisitions,  out 
of  me.  In  the  mean  time,  can  you,  or  can  you  not,  manage  to  meet 
the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  the  marriage  ?" 

"  I  have  settled  every  thing,"  Launce  answered,  confidently. 
"  There  is  not  a  single  difficulty  left." 

He  turned  to  Natalie,  listening  to  him  in  amazement,  and  ex- 
plained himself.  It  had  struck  him  that  he  might  appeal  —  with 
his  purse  in  his  hand,  of  course — to  the  interest  felt  in  his  affairs  by 
the  late  stewardess  of  the  yacht.  That  excellent  woman  had  volun- 
teered to  do  all  that  she  could  to  help  him.  Her  husband  had  ob- 
tained situations  for  his  wife  and  himself  on  board  another  yacht — 
and  they  were  both  eager  to  assist  in  any  conspiracy  in  which  their 
late  merciless  master  was  destined  to  play  the  part  of  victim.  When 
on  shore,  they  lived  in  a  populous  London  parish,  far  away  from  the 
fashionable  district  of  Berkeley  Square,  and  farther  yet  from  the 
respectable  suburb  of  Muswell*Hill.  A  room  in  the  house  could 
be  nominally  engaged  for  Natalie,  in  the  assumed  character  of  the 
stewardess's  niece — the  stewardess  undertaking  to  answer  any  pure- 
ly formal  questions  which  might  be  put  by  the  church  authorities, 
and  to  be  present  at  the  marriage  -  ceremony.  As  for  Launce,  he 
would  actually,  as  well  as  nominally,  live  in  the  district  close  by ; 
and  the  steward,  if  needful,  would  answer  for  Mm.  Natalie  might 
call  at  her  parochial  residence  occasionally,  under  the  wing  of  Lady 
Winwood ;  gaining  leave  of  absence  from  Muswell  Hill,  on  the  plea 
of  paying  one  of  her  customary  visits  at  her  aunt's  house.  The  con- 
spiracy, in  brief,  was  arranged  in  all  its  details.  Nothing  was  now 
wanting  but  the  consent  of  the  young  lady;  obtaining  which, 


MISS   OB  MRS.?  333 

Launcc  would  go  to  the  parish  church  and  give  the  necessary  no- 
tice of  a  marriage  by  banns  on  the  next  day.  There  was  the  plot. 
What  did  the  ladies  think  of  it  ? 

Lady  Winwood  thought  it  perfect 

Natalie  was  not  so  easily  satisfied. 

"  My  father  lias  always  been  so  kind  to  me  !"  she  said.  "  The  one 
thing  I  can't  get  over,  Launce,  is  distressing  papa.  If  he  had  been 
hard  on  me  —  as  some  fathers  are  —  I  shouldn't  mind."  She  sud- 
denly brightened,  as  if  she  saw  her  position  in  a  new  light.  "  Why 
should  you  hurry  me  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  am  going  to  dine  at  my 
aunt's  to-day,  and  you  are  coming  in  the  evening.  Give  me  time ! 
Wait  till  to-night." 

Launce  instantly  entered  his  protest  against  wasting  a  moment 
longer.  Lady  Winwood  opened  her  lips  to  support  him.  They 
were  both  silenced  at  the  same  moment  by  the  appearance  of  one  of 
Mrs.  Bancroft's  servants,  opening  the  gate  of  the  square. 

Lady  Winwood  went  forward  to  meet  the  man.  A  suspicion 
crossed  her  mind  that  he  might  be  bringing  bad  news. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady — the  housekeeper  said  you  were 
walking  here  with  Miss  Graybrooke.  A  telegram  for  Miss  Gray- 
brooke." 

Lady  Winwood  took  the  telegram  from  the  man's  hand ;  dismiss- 
ed him,  and  went  back  with  it  to  Natalie.  Natalie  opened  it  nerv- 
ously. She  read  the  message — and  instantly  changed.  Her  cheeks 
flushed  deep ;  her  eyes  flashed  with  indignation.  "  Even  papa  can 
!>c  hard  on  me,  it  seems,  when  Richard  asks  him!"  she  exclaimed. 
She  handed  the  telegram  to  Launce.  Her  eyes  suddenly  filled  with 
tears.  '"Ton  love  me,"  she  said,  gently  —  and  stopped.  "Marry 
me  !"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  resolution.  "  I'll  risk  it  1" 

As  she  spoke  those  words,  Lady  Winwood  read  the  telegram.  It 
ran  thus : 

"Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke,  Muswell  Hill.  To  Miss  Natalie  Gray- 
brooke, Berkeley  Square.  Come  back  immediately.  You  are  en- 
gaged to  dine  here  with  Richard  Turlington." 

Lady  Winwood  folded  up  the  telegram  with  a  malicious  smile. 
"  Well  done,  Sir  Joseph  !"  thought  her  ladyship.  "  We  might  nevei 
have  persuaded  Natalie — but  for  You !" 


334  MISS   OK  MllS.  ? 


SIXTH  SCENE. 

THE    CHURCH. 

THE  time  is  morning;  the  date  is  early  in  the  month  of  No- 
vember. The  place  is  a  church,  in  a  poor  and  populous  parish  in  the 
undiscovered  regions  of  London,  eastward  of  the  Tower,  and  hard 
by  the  river-side. 

A  marriage  procession  of  five  approaches  the  altar.  The  bride- 
groom is  pale,  and  the  bride  is  frightened.  The  bride's  friend  (a 
resolute-looking  little  lady)  encourages  her  in  whispers.  The  two 
respectable  persons,  apparently  man  and  wife,  who  complete  the 
procession,  seem  to  be  not  quite  clear  as  to  the  position  which  they 
occupy  at  the  ceremony.  The  beadle,  as  he  marshals  them  before 
the  altar,  sees  something  under  the  surface  in  this  wedding-party. 
Marriages  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life  are  the  only  marriages  celebra- 
ted here.  Is  this  a  runaway  match  ?  The  beadle  anticipates  some- 
thing out  of  the  common  in  the  shape  of  a  fee. 

The  clergyman  (the  junior  curate)  appears  from  the  vestry  in  his 
robes.  The  clerk  takes  his  place.  The  clergyman's  eye  rests  with 
a  sudden  interest  and  curiosity  on  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  on 
the  bride's  friend ;  notices  the  absence  of  elderly  relatives ;  remarks, 
in  the  two  ladies  especially,  evidences  of  refinement  and  breeding 
entirely  unparalleled  in  his  professional  experience  of  brides  and 
brides'  friends  standing  before  the  altar  of  that  church ;  questions, 
silently  and  quickly,  the  eye  of  the  clerk,  occupied  also  in  observing 
the  strangers  with  interest.  "  Jeukinsou  "  (the  clergyman's  look 
asks),  "  is  this  all  right  ?"  "  Sir  "  (the  clerk's  look  answers), "  a  mar- 
riage by  banns ;  all  the  formalities  have  been  observed."  The  cler- 
gyman opens  his  book.  The  formalities  have  been  observed;  his 
duty  lies  plainly  before  him.  Attention,  Launcelot !  Courage,  Na- 
talie !  The  service  begins. 

Launce  casts  a  last  furtive  look  round  the  church.  Will  Sir  Jo- 
seph Graybrooke  start  up  and  stop  it  from  one  of  the  empty  pews  ? 
Is  Richard  Turlington  lurking  in  the  organ  loft,  and  only  waiting 
till  the  words  of  the  service  appeal  to  him  to  prohibit  the  marriage, 
or  "  else  hereafter  forever  to  hold  his  peace  ?"  No.  The  clergyman 
proceeds  steadily,  and  nothing  happens.  Natalie's  charming  face 
grows  paler  and  paler,  Natalie's  heart  throbs  faster  and  faster,  as  the 
time  conies  nearer  for  reading  the  words  which  unite  them  for  life. 
Lady  Winwood  herself  feels  an  unaccustomed  fluttering  in  the  re- 
gion of  the  bosom.  Her  ladyship's  thoughts  revert,  not  altogether 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  335 

pleasantly,  to  her  own  marriage  :  "  Ah  me  !  what  was  /  thinking  of 
when  I  was  in  this  position  '.  Of  the  bride's  beautiful  dress,  and  of 
Lady  Winwood'l  coming  presentation  at  court!" 

The  service  advances  to  the  words  in  which  they  plight  theil 
troth.  Launce  has  put  the  ring  on  her  finger.  Launce  has  repeated 
the  words  after  the  clergyman.  Launce  has  married  her!  Done! 
Conic  what  may  of  it,  done  ! 

The  service  ends.  Bridegroom,  bride,  and  witnesses  go  into  the 
vestry  to  sign  the  book.  The  signing,  like  the  service,  is  serious. 
No  trifling  with  the  truth  is  possible  here.  When  it  cornea  to  Lady 
Winwood's  turn,  Lady  Win  wood  must  write  her  name.  She  does 
it,  but  without  her  usual  grace  and  decision.  She  drops  her  hand- 
kerchief. The  clerk  picks  it  up  for  her,  and  notices  that  a  coronet 
is  embroidered  in  one  corner. 

The  fees  are  paid.  They  leave  the  vestry.  Other  couples,  when 
it  is  over,  are  talkative  am!  happy.  These  two  are  more  silent  and 
more  embarrassed  than  ever.  Stranger  still,  while  other  couples  go 
off  with  relatives  and  friends,  all  socially  united  in  honor  of  the  oc- 
casion, these  two  and  their  friends  part  at  the  church  door.  The 
respectable  man  and  his  wife  go  their  way  on  foot.  The  little  lady 
\\ith  the  coronet  on  her  handkerchief  puts  the  bride  into  a  cab,  gets 
in  herself,  and  directs  the  driver  to  close  the  door,  while  the  bride- 
groom is  standing  on  the  church  steps !  The  bridegroom's  face  is 
clouded,  as  well  it  may  be.  He  puts  his  head  in  at  the  window 
of  i  lie  cab;  he  possesses  himself  of  the  bride's  hand;  he  speaks  in  a 
whisper;  he  is  apparently  not  to  be  shaken  off.  The  little  lady  ex- 
erts her  authority,  separates  the  clasped  hands,  pushes  the  bride- 
groom away,  and  cries  peremptorily  to  the  driver  to  go  on.  The 
cab  starts ;  the  deserted  husband  drifts  desolately  anyhow  down  the 
street.  The  clerk,  who  has  seen  it  all,  goes  back  to  the  vestry,  and 
reports  what  has  happened. 

The  rector  (with  his  wife  on  his  arm)  has  just  dropped  into  the 
vestry  on  business  in  passing.  He  and  the  curate  are  talking  about 
the  strange  marriage.  The  rector,  gravely  bent  on  ascertaining  that 
no  blame  rests  with  the  church,  interrogates,  and  is  satisfied.  The 
rector's  wife  is  not  so  easy  to  deal  with.  She  has  looked  at  the  sig- 
natures in  the  book.  One  of  the  names  is  familiar  to  her.  She 
cross-examines  the  clerk  as  soon  as  her  husband  is  done  with  him. 
When  she  hears  of  the  coronet  on  the  handkerchief  she  points  to 
the  signature  of"  Louisa  Winwood,"  and  says  to  the  rector,  "  I  know 
who  it  is!  Lord  Winwood's  second  wife.  I  went  to  school  with  his 
lordship's  daughters  by  his  first  marriage.  We  occasionally  meet  at 
the  Sacred  Concerts  (on  the  '  Ladies'  Committee ') ;  I  shall  find  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  them.  One  moment,  Mr.  Jenkinson,  I 
will  write  down  the  names  before  you  put  away  the  book.  '  I*aunce- 

14* 


336  MISS   OB   MRS.  ? 

lot  Linzie,' '  Natalie  Graybrooke.'    Very  pretty  names ;  quite  roman- 
tic.    I  do  delight  in  a  romance.     Good-morning." 

She  gives  the  curate  a  parting  smile,  and  the  clerk  a  parting  nod, 
and  sails  out  of  the  vestry.  Natalie,  silently  returning  in  Lady  Win- 
wood's  company  to  Muswell  Hill ;  and  Launce,  cursing  the  law  of 
Abduction  as  he  roams  the  streets — little  think  that  the  ground  is 
already  mined  under  their  feet.  Richard  Turlington  may  hear  of  it 
now,  or  may  hear  of  it  later.  The  discovery  of  the  marriage  depends 
entirely  on  a  chance  meeting  between  the  lord's  daughters  and  the 
rector's  wife. 


SEVENTH  SCENE. 

THE    EVENING     PAKTY. 


MB.  TURLINGTON, 

LADY  WINWOOD  At  Home. 
Wednesday,  December  15th. — Ten  o'clock. 


"  DEAREST  NATALIE, — As  the  brute  insists,  the  brute  must  have 
the  invitation  which  I  inclose.  Never  mind,  my  child.  You  and 
Launce  are  coming  to  dinner,  and  I  will  see  that  you  have  your  lit- 
tle private  opportunities  of  retirement  afterward.  All  I  expect  of 
you  in  return  is,  not  to  look  (when  you  come  back)  as  if  your  hus- 
band had  been  kissing  you.  You  will  certainly  let  out  the  secret 
of  those  stolen  kisses,  if  you  don't  take  care.  At  mamma's  dinner 
yesterday,  your  color  (when  you  came  out  of  the  conservatory)  was 
a  sight  to  see.  Even  your  shoulders  were  red !  They  are  charming 
shoulders,  I  know,  and  men  take  the  strangest  fancies  sometimes. 
But,  my  dear,  suppose  you  wear  a  chemisette  next  time,  if  you 
haven't  authority  enough  over  him  to  prevent  his  doing  it  again ! 
"  Your  aifectionate  LOUISA." 

The  private  history  of  the  days  that  had  passed  since  the  marriage 
was  written  in  that  letter.  An  additional  chapter — of  some  impor- 
tance in  its  bearing  on  the  future — was  contributed  by  the  progress 
of  events  at  Lady  Winwood's  party. 

By  previous  arrangement  with  Natalie,  the  Graybrookes  (invited 
to  dinner)  arrived  early.  Leaving  her  husband  and  her  stepdaugh- 
ters to  entertain  Sir  Joseph  and  Miss  Lavinia,  Lady  Winwood  took 
Natalie  into  her  own  boudoir,  which  communicated  by  a  curtained 
opening  with  the  drawing-room. 


MISS   OR   MBS.?  337 

•  My  dear,  you  are  looking  positively  haggard  this  evening.  Has 
.my  tiling  happened  ?" 

"  I  am  nearly  worn  out,  Louisa.  The  life  I  am  leading  is  so  unen- 
durable that,  if  Launce  pressed  me,  I  believe  I  should  consent  to  run 
away  with  him  when  we  leave  your  house  to-night." 

••  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  if  you  please.  Wait  till  you 
are  sixteen.  I  delight  in  novelty,  but  the  novelty  of  appearing  at 
the  Old  Bailey  is  beyond  my  ambition.  Is  the  brute  coming  to- 
night!" 

"Of  course.  He  insists  on  following  me  wherever  I  go.  He 
lunched  at  Muswell  Hill  to-day.  More  complaints  of  my  incompre- 
hensible coldness  to  him.  Another  scolding  from  papa.  A  furious 
letter  from  Launce.  If  I  let  Richard  kiss  my  hand  again  in  his 
presence,  Launce  warns  me  he  will  knock  him  down.  Oh,  the 
meanness  and  the  guiltiness  of  the  life  I  am  leading  now !  I  am 
in  the  falsest  of  all  false  positions,  Louisa,  and  you  encouraged  me 
to  do  it.  I  believe  Richard  Turlington  suspects  us.  The  last  two 
times  Launce  and  I  tried  to  get  a  minute  together  at  my  aunt's,  he 
contrived  to  put  himself  in  our  way.  There  he  was,  my  dear,  with 
his  scowling  face,  looking  as  if  he  longed  to  kill  Launce.  Can  you 
do  any  thing  for  us  to-night  ?  Not  on  my  account.  But  Launce 
is  so  impatient.  If  he  can't  say  two  words  to  me  alone  this  even- 
ing, he  declares  he  will  come  to  Muswell  Hill,  and  catch  me  in  the 
garden  to-morrow." 

"Compose  yourself,  my  dear;  he  shall  say  his  two  words  to- 
night." 

"  How  ?" 

Lady  Winwood  pointed  through  the  curtained  entrance  of  the 
boudoir  to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room.  Beyond  the  door  was 
the  staircase  landing.  And  beyond  the  landing  was  a  second  draw- 
ing-room, the  smallest  of  the  two. 

"  There  are  only  three  or  four  people  coming  to  dinner,"  her  lady- 
ship proceeded;  "and  a  few  more  in  the  evening.  Being  a  small 
party,  the  small  drawing-room  will  do  for  us.  This  drawing-room 
will  not  be  lit,  and  there  will  be  only  my  reading-lamp  here  in  the 
boudoir.  I  shall  give  the  signal  for  leaving  the  dining-room  earlier 
than  usual.  Launce  will  join  us  before  the  evening  party  begins. 
The  moment  he  appears,  send  him  in  here — boldly  before  your  aunt 
and  all  of  us." 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  For  your  fan.  Leave  it  there  under  the  sofa-cushion  before  we 
go  down  to  dinner.  You  will  sit  next  to  Launce,  and  you  will  give 
him  private  instructions  not  to  find  the  fan.  You  will  get  impatient 
— you  will  go  to  find  it  yourself— and  there  you  are.  Take  care  of 
your  shoulders,  Mrs.  Linzie  !  I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 


338  MISS    OR   MRS.  ? 

The  guests  asked  to  dinner  began  to  arrive.  Lady  Winwood  was 
recalled  to  her  duties  as  mistress  of  the  house. 

It  was  a  pleasant  little  dinner — with  one  drawback.  It  began 
too  late.  The  ladies  only  reached  the  small  drawing-room  at  ten 
minutes  to  ten.  Launce  was  only  able  to  join  them  as  the  clock 
struck. 

"  Too  late !"  whispered  Natalie.     "  He  will  be  here  directly." 

"Nobody  comes  punctually  to  an  evening  party,"  said  Launce. 
"  Don't  let  us  lose  a  moment.  Send  me  for  your  fan." 

Natalie  opened  her  lips  to  say  the  necessary  words.  Before  she 
could  speak,  the  servant  announced — "  Mr.  Turlington." 

He  came  in,  with  his  stiffly-upright  shirt  collar  and  his  loosely- 
fitting  glossy  black  clothes.  He  made  his  sullen  and  clumsy  bow 
to  Lady  Winwood.  And  then  he  did,  what  he  had  done  dozens  of 
times  already — he  caught  Natalie,  with  her  eyes  still  bright  and  her 
face  still  animated  (after  talking  to  Launce)  —a  striking  contrast  to 
the  cold  and  unimpulsive  young  lady  whom  he  was  accustomed  to 
see  while  Natalie  was  talking  to  him. 

Lord  Winwood's  daughters  were  persons  of  some  celebrity  in  the 
world  of  amateur  music.  Noticing  the  look  that  Turlington  cast  at 
Launce,  Lady  Winwood  whispered  to  Miss  Lavinia — who  instantly 
asked  the  young  ladies  to  sing.  Launce,  in  obedience  to  a  sign 
from  Natalie,  volunteered  to  find  the  music-books.  It  is  needless 
to  add  that  he  pitched  on  the  wrong  volume  at  starting.  As  he 
lifted  it  from  the  piano  to  take  it  back  to  the  stand,  there  dropped 
out  from  between  the  leaves  a  printed  letter,  looking  like  a  circular. 
One  of  the  young  ladies  took  it  up,  and  ran  her  eye  over  it,  with  a 
start. 

"  The  Sacred  Concerts !"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  two  sisters,  standing  by,  looked  at  each  other  guiltily :  "  What 
will  the  Committee  say  to  us  ?  We  entirely  forgot  the  meeting  last 
month." 

"  Is  there  a  meeting  this  month  ?" 

They  all  looked  anxiously  at  the  printed  letter. 

"  Yes !  The  twenty-third  of  December.  Put  it  down  in  your 
book,  Amelia."  Amelia,  then  and  there,  put  it  down  among  the 
engagements  for  the  latter  end  of  the  month.  And  Natalie's  unac- 
knowledged husband  placidly  looked  on. 

So  did  the  merciless  irony  of  circumstances  make  Launce  the  in- 
nocent means  of  exposing  his  own  secret  to  discovery.  Thanks  to 
his  success  in  laying  his  hand  on  the  wrong  music-book,  there  would 
now  be  a  meeting — two  good  days  before  the  elopement  could  take 
place— between  the  lord's  daughters  and  the  rector's  wife ! 

The  guests  of  the  evening  began  to  appear  by  twos  and  threes. 
The  gentlemen  below  stairs  left  the  dinner-table,  and  joined  them. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  330 

The  small  drawing-room  was  pleasantly  filled,  and  no  more.  b;r 
Joseph  Graybrooke,  taking  Turlington's  hand,  led  him  eagerly  to 
their  host.  The  talk  in  the  dining-room  had  turned  on  finance. 
Lord  "Wimvood  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  some  of  his  foreign  in- 
vestments ;  and  Sir  Joseph's  "  dear  Richard "  was  the  very  man  to 
give  him  a  little  sound  advice.  The  three  laid  their  heads  together 
in  a  corner.  Launce  (watching  them)  slyly  pressed  Natalie's  hand. 
A  renowned  "  virtuoso  "  had  arrived,  and  was  thundering  on  the 
piano.  The  attention  of  the  guests  generally  was  absorbed  in  the 
performance.  A  fairer  chance  of  sending  Launce  for  the  fan  could 
not  possibly  have  offered  itself.  While  the  financial  discussion  was 
still  proceeding,  the  married  lovers  were  ensconced  together  alone 
in  the  boudoir. 

Lady  Winwood  (privately  observant  of  their  absence)  kept  her 
eye  on  the  corner,  watching  Richard  Turlington. 

He  was  talking  earnestly  —  with  his  back  toward  the  company. 
He  neither  moved  nor  looked  round.  It  came  to  Lord  Winwood's 
turn  to  speak.  He  preserved  the  same  position,  listening.  Sir  Jo- 
seph took  up  the  conversation  next.  Then  his  attention  wander- 
ed— he  knew  beforehand  what  Sir  Joseph  would  say.  His  eyes 
turned  anxiously  toward  the  place  in  which  he  had  left  Natalie. 
Lord- Winwood  said  a  word.  His  head  turned  back  again  toward 
the  corner.  Sir  Joseph  put  an  objection.  He  glanced  once  more 
over  his  shoulder — this  time  at  the  place  in  which  Launce  had  been 
standing.  The  next  moment  his  host  recalled  his  attention,  and 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  continue  his  scrutiny  of  the  room. 
At  the  same  time,  two  among  the  evening  guests,  bound  for  another 
party,  approached  to  take  leave  of  the  lady  of  the  house.  Lady 
Winwood  was  obliged  to  rise,  and  attend  to  them.  They  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  her  before  they  left,  and  they  said  it  at  terrible  length, 
standing  so  as  to  intercept  her  view  of  the  proceedings  of  the  enemy. 
When  she  had  got  rid  of  them  at  last,  she  looked — and  behold  Lord 
Winwood  and  Sir  Joseph  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  corner! 

Delaying  one  moment,  to  set  the  "virtuoso"  thundering  once 
more,  Lady  Winwood  slipped  out  of  the  room  and  crossed  the  land- 
ing. At  the  entrance  to  the  empty  drawing-room  she  heard  Tur- 
lington's voice,  low  and  threatening,  in  the  boudoir.  Jealousy  has 
a  Second  Sight  of  its  own.  He  had  looked  in  the  right  place  at 
starting — and,  oh  heavens !  he  had  caught  them. 

Her  ladyship's  courage  was  beyond  dispute ;  but  she  turned  pale 
as  she  approached  the  entrance  to  the  boudoir. 

There  stood  Natalie  —  at  once  angry  and  afraid — between  the 
man  to  whom  she  was  ostensibly  engaged,  and  the  man  to  whom 
she  was  actually  married.  Turlington's  rugged  face  expressed  a 
martyrdom  of  suppressed  fury.  Launce — in  the  act  of  offering  Na- 


340  MISS    OR   MRS.  ? 

talie  l-.er  fan — smiled,  with  the  cool  superiority  of  a  man  who  knew 
that  he  had  won  his  advantage,  and  who  triumphed  in  knowing  it. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  take  your  fan  from  that  man's  hands,"  said  Tur- 
lington, speaking  to  Natalie,  and  pointing  to  Launce. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  too  soon  to  begin  '  forbidding  ?' "  asked  Lady  Win- 
woocl,  good-humoredly. 

"  Exactly  what  I  say  !"  exclaimed  Launce.  "  It  seems  necessary 
to  remind  Mr.  Turlington  that  he  is  not  married  to  Natalie  yet !" 

Those  last  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone  which  made  both  the 
women  tremble  inwardly  for  results.  Lady  Winwood  took  the 
fan  from  Launce  with  one  hand,  and  took  Natalie's  arm  with  the 
other. 

"  There  is  your  fan,  my  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  easy  off-hand  man- 
ner. "  Why  do  you  allow  these  two  barbarous  men  to  keep  you 
here  while  the  great  Bootmann  is  playing  the  Nightmare  Sonata  in 
the  next  room  ?  Launce  !  Mr.  Turlington !  follow  me,  and  learn  to 
be  musical  directly  !  You  have  only  to  shut  your  eyes,  and  you  will 
fancy  you  hear  four  modern  German  composers  playing,  instead  of 
one,  and  not  the  ghost  of  a  melody  among  all  the  four."  She  led 
the  way  out  with  Natalie,  and  whispered,  "  Did  he  catch  you  ?" 
Natalie  whispered  back,  "  I  heard  him  in  time.  He  only  caught  us 
looking  for  the  fan."  The  two  men  waited  behind  to  have  two 
words  together  alone  in  the  boudoir. 

"  This  doesn't  end  here,  Mr.  Linzie  !" 

Launce  smiled  satirically.  "  For  once  I  agree  with  you,"  he  an- 
swered. "  It  doesn't  end  here,  as  you  say." 

Lady  Winwood  stopped,  and  looked  back  at  them  from  the  draw- 
ing-room door.  They  were  keeping  her  waiting  —  they  had  no 
choice  but  to  follow  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Arrived  in  the  next  room,  both  Turlington  and  Launce  resumed 
their  places  among  the  guests  with  the  same  object  in  view.  As  a 
necessary  result  of  the  scene  in  the  boudoir,  each  had  his  own  special 
remonstrance  to  address  to  Sir  Joseph.  Even  here,  Launce  was  be- 
forehand with  Turlington.  He  was  the  first  to  get  possession  of 
Sir  Joseph's  private  ear.  His  complaint  took  the  form  of  a  protest 
against  Turlington's  jealousy,  and  an  appeal  for  a  reconsideration  of 
the  sentence  which  excluded  him  from  Muswell  Hill.  Watching 
them  from  a  distance,  Turlington's  suspicious  eye  detected  the  ap- 
pearance of  something  unduly  confidential  in  the  colloquy  be- 
tween the  two.  Under  cover  of  the  company,  he  stole  behind  them 
and  listened. 

The  great  Bootmann  had  arrived  at  that  part  of  the  Nightmare 
Sonata  in  which  musical  sound,  produced  principally  with  the  left 
hand,  is  made  to  describe,  beyond  all  possibility  of  mistake,  the 
rising  of  the  moon  in  a  country  church-yard  and  a  dance  of  Vanx- 


MISS    OK    MRS.  ?  341 

pires  round  a  maiden's  grave.  Sir  Joseph,  having  no  chance  against 
the  Vampires  in  a  wliisper,  was  obliged  to  raise  his  voice  to  make 
himself  audible  in  answering  and  comforting  Launce.  "I  sincere- 
ly sympathize  with  you,"  Turlington  heard  him  say;  "and  Natalie 
feels  about  it  as  I  do.  But  Richard  is  an  obstacle  in  our  way.  We 
must  look  to  the  consequences,  my  dear  boy,  supposing  Richard 
found  us  out."  He  nodded  kindly  to  his  nephew ;  and,  declining 
to  pursue  the  subject,  moved  away  to  another  part  of  the  room. 

Turlington's  jealous  distrust,  wrought  to  the  highest  pitch  of  ir- 
ritability for  weeks  past,  instantly  associated  the  words  he  had  just 
heard  with  the  words  spoken  by  Launce  in  the  boudoir,  which  had 
reminded  him  that  he  was  not  married  to  Natalie  yet.  Was  there 
treachery  at  work  under  the  surface?  and  was  the  object  to  per- 
suade weak  Sir  Joseph  to  reconsider  his  daughter's  contemplated 
marriage  in  a  sense  favorable  to  Launce  ?  Turlington's  blind  sus- 
picion overleaped  at  a  bound  all  the  manifest  improbabilities  which 
forbade  such  a  conclusion  as  this.  After  an  instant's  considera- 
tion with  himself,  he  decided  on  keeping  his  own  counsel,  and  on 
putting  Sir  Joseph's  good  faith  then  and  there  to  a  test  which  he 
could  rely  on  as  certain  to  take  Natalie's  father  by  surprise. 

"  Graybrooke !" 

Sir  Joseph  started  at  the  sight  of  his  future  son-in  law's  face. 

••  My  dear  Richard,  you  are  looking  very  strangely!  Is  the  heat 
of  the  room  too  much  for  you  ?" 

"  Never  mind  the  heat !  I  have  seen  enough  to-night  to  justify 
me  in  insisting  that  your  daughter  and  Launcelot  Linzie  shall  meet 
no  more  between  this  and  the  day  of  my  marriage."  Sir  Joseph  at- 
tempted to  speak.  Turlington  declined  to  give  him  the  opportu- 
nity. "  Yes !  yes !  your  opinion  of  Linzie  isn't  mine,  I  know.  I 
saw  you  as  thick  as  thieves  together  just  now."  Sir  Joseph  once 
more  attempted  to  make  himself  heard.  Wearied  by  Turlington's 
perpetual  complaints  of  his  daughter  and  his  nephew,  he  was  suffi- 
ciently irritated  by  this  time  to  have  reported  what  Launce  had 
actually  said  to  him  if  he  had  been  allowed  the  chance.  But  Tur- 
lington persisted  in  going  on.  "  I  can  not  prevent  Linzie  from  be- 
ing received  in  this  house,  and  at  your  sister's,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  can 
keep  him  out  of  my  house  in  the  country,  and  to  the  country  let  us 
go.  I  propose  a  change  in  the  arrangements.  Have  you  any  en- 
gagement for  the  Christmas  holidays  ?" 

He  paused,  and  fixed  his  eyes  attentively  on  Sir  Joseph.  Sir 
Joseph,  looking  a  little  surprised,  replied  briefly  that  he  had  no  en- 
gagraMnt. 

"  In  that  case,"  resumed  Turlington,  "  I  invite  you  all  to  Somer- 
setshire, and  I  propose  that  the  marriage  shall  take  place  from  my 
house,  and  not  from  yours.  Do  you  refuse  ?" 


342  MISS   OR  MRS.  ? 

"  It  is  contrary  to  the  usual  course  of  proceeding  in  such  cases, 
Richard,"  Sir  Joseph  began. 

"  Do  you  refuse  ?"  reiterated  Turlington.  "  I  tell  you  plainly,  I 
shall  place  a  construction  of  my  own  upon  your  motive  if  you  do." 

"  No,  Richard,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  quietly,  "  I  accept." 

Turlington  drew  back  a  step  in  silence.  Sir  Joseph  had  turned 
the  tables  on  him,  and  had  taken  him  by  surprise. 

"  It  will  upset  several  plans,  and  be  strongly  objected  to  by  the 
ladies,"  proceeded  the  old  gentleman.  "  But  if  nothing  less  will 
satisfy  you,  I  saj,  Yes !  I  shall  have  occasion,  when  we  meet  to- 
morrow at  Muswell  Hill,  to  appeal  to  your  indulgence  under  cir 
cumstances  which  may  greatly  astonish  you.  The  least  I  can  do,  iu 
the  mean  time,  is  to  set  an  example  of  friendly  sympathy  and  for- 
bearance on  my  side.  No  more  now,  Richard.  Hush  !  the  music !" 

It  was  impossible  to  make  him  explain  himself  further  that  night. 
Turlington  was  left  to  interpret  Sir  Joseph's  mysterious  communica- 
tion with  such  doubtful  aid  to  success  as  his  own  unassisted  inge- 
nuity might  afford. 

The  meeting  of  the  next  day  at  Muswell  Hill  had  for  its  object- 
as  Turlington  had  already  been  informed — the  drawing  of  Natalie's 
marriage-settlement.  Was  the  question  of  money  at  the  bottom  of 
Sir  Joseph's  contemplated  appeal  to  his  indulgence?  He  thought 
of  his  commercial  position.  The  depression  in  the  Levant  trade 
still  continued.  Never  had  his  business  at  any  previous  time  re- 
quired such  constant  attention,  and  repaid  that  attention  with  so 
little  profit.  The  Bills  of  Lading  had  been  already  used  by  the 
firm,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  trade,  to  obtain  possession  of  the 
goods.  The  duplicates  in  the  hands  of  Bulpit  Brothers  were  liter- 
ally waste  paper.  Repayment  of  the  loan  of  forty  thousand  pounds 
(with  interest)  was  due  in  less  than  a  month's  time.  There  was  his 
commercial  position !  Was  it  possible  that  money-loving  Sir  Joseph 
had  any  modification  to  propose  in  the  matter  of  his  daughter's 
dowry  ?  The  bare  dread  that  it  might  be  so  struck  him  cold.  He 
quitted  the  house — and  forgot  to  wish  Natalie  good-night. 

Meanwhile,  Launce  had  left  the  evening  party  before  him — and 
Launce  also  found  matter  for  serious  reflection  presented  to  his 
mind  before  he  slept  that  night.  In  other  words,  he  found,  on 
reaching  his  lodgings,  a  letter  from  his  brother,  marked  "  private." 
Had  the  inquiry  into  the  secrets  of  Turlington's  early  life  —  now 
prolonged  over  some  weeks — led  to  positive  results  at  last  ?  Launce 
eagerly  opened  the  letter.  It  contained  a  Report  and  a  Summary. 
He  passed  at  once  to  the  Summary,  and  read  these  words : 

"If  you  only  want  moral  evidence  to  satisfy  your  own  mind,  your 
end  is  gained.  There  is,  morally,  no  doubt  that  Turlington  and  the 
eea-captain  who  cast  the  foreign  sailor  overboard  to  drown  are  one 


MISS    OR    MKS.  ?  343 

and  the  same  man.  Loyally,  the  matter  is  beset  by  difficulties,  Tur- 
lington having  destroyed  all  provable  connection  between  his  pres- 
ent self  and  his  past  life.  There  is  only  one  chance  for  us.  A  sailor 
on  board  the  ship  (who  was  in  his  master's  secrets)  is  supposed  to 
IK-  still  living  (under  his  master's  protection).  All  the  black  deeds 
of  Turlington's  early  life  are  known  to  this  man.  He  can  prove  the 
fuels,  if  we  can  find  him,  and  make  it  worth  his  while  to  speak. 
Under  what  alias  he  is  hidden  we  do  not  know.  His  own  name  is 
Thomas  Wildfang.  If  we  are  to  make  the  attempt  to  find  him,  not 
a  moment  is  to  be  lost.  The  expenses  may  be  serious.  Let  me  know 
whether  we  are  to  go  on,  or  whether  enough  has  been  done  to  attain 
the  end  you  have  in  view." 

Enough  had  been  done — not  only  to  satisfy  Lauhce,  but  to  pro- 
duce the  right  effect  on  Sir  Joseph's  mind  if  Sir  Joseph  proved  ob- 
durate when  the  secret  of  the  marriage  was  revealed.  Launce  wrote 
a  line  directing  the  stoppage  of  the  proceedings  at  the  point  which 
they  had  now  reached.  "Here  is  a  reason  for  her  not  marrying 
Turlington,1'  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  placed  the  papers  under  lock 
and  key.  "  And  if  she  doesn't  marry  Turlington,"  he  added,  with 
a  lover's  logic,  "  why  shouldn't  she  marry  Me  ?" 


EIGHTH  SCENE. 

THE   LIBRARY. 

TITE  next  day  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke,  Sir  Joseph's  lawyer,  Mr. 
Dicas  (highly  respectable  and  immensely  rich),  and  Richard  Tur- 
lington were  assembled  in  the  library  at  Muswell  Hill,  to  discuss  the 
question  of  Natalie's  marriage-settlement. 

After  the  usual  preliminary  phrases  had  been  exchanged,  Sir  Jo- 
seph showed  some  hesitation  in  openly  approaching  the  question 
which  the  little  party  of  three  had  met  to  debate.  He  avoided"  his 
lawyer's  eye  ;  and  lie  looked  at  Turlington  rather  uneasily. 

'•  Hie-hard,"  he  l)egan  at  last,  "  when  I  spoke  to  you  about  your 
marriage,  on  board  the  yacht,  I  said  I  would  give  my  daughter — " 
Either  his  courage  or  his  breath  failed  him  at  that  point.  He  was 
obliged  to  wait  a  moment  before  he  could  go  on. 

"I  said  I  would  give  my  daughter  half  my  fortune  on  her  mar- 
riage," he  resumed.  "  Forgive  me,  Richard.  I  can't  do  it !" 

Mr.  Dicas,  waiting  for  his  instructions,  laid  down  his  pen,  and 
looked  at  Sir  Joseph's  son-in-law  elect.  What  would  Mr.  Turling- 
ton say  ? 

He  said  nothing.  Sitting  opposite  the  window,  he  rose  when  Sir 
Joseph  spoke,  and  placed  himself  at  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
with  his  back  to  the  light. 


344  MISS   OR  MRS.  ? 

"  My  eyes  are  weak  this  morning,"  he  said,  in  an  unnaturally  low 
tone  of  voice.  "  The  light  hurts  them." 

He  could  find  no  more  plausible  excuse  than  that  for  concealing 
his  face  in  shadow  from  the  scrutiny  of  the  two  men  on  either  side 
of  him.  The  continuous  moral  irritation  of  his  unhappy  courtship 
— a  courtship  which  had  never  advanced  beyond  the  frigid  famil- 
iarity of  kissing  Natalie's  hand  in  the  presence  of  others — had  phys- 
ically deteriorated  him.  Even  his  hardy  nerves  began  to  feel  the 
long  strain  of  suspicion  that  had  been  laid  unremittingly  on  them 
for  weeks  past.  His  power  of  self-control — he  knew  it  himself — was 
not  to  be  relied  on.  He  could  hide  bis  face:  he  could  no  longer 
command  it. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said,  Richard  ?" 

"I  heard.     Goon." 

Sir  Joseph  proceeded,  gathering  confidence  as  he  advanced. 

"  Half  my  fortune !"  he  repeated.  "  It's  parting  with  half  my  life ; 
it's  saying  good-bye  forever  to  my  dearest  Mend !  My  money  has 
been  such  a  comfort  to  me,  Richard ;  such  a  pleasant  occupation 
for  my  mind.  I  know  no  reading  so  interesting  and  so  instructive 
as  the  reading  of  one's  Banker's  Book.  To  watch  the  outgoings  on 
one  side,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  with  a  gentle  and  pathetic  solemnity, 
"  and  the  incomings  on  the  other — the  sad  lessening  of  the  balance 
at  one  time,  and  the  cheering  and  delightful  growth  of  it  at  another 
— what  absorbing  reading!  The  best  novel  that  ever  was  written 
isn't  to  be  mentioned  in  a  breath  with  it.  I  can  not,  Richard,  I 
really  can  not,  see  my  nice  round  balance  shrink  up  to  half  the  figure 
that  I  have  been  used  to  for  a  lifetime.  It  may  be  weak  of  me," 
proceeded  Sir  Joseph,  evidently  feeling  that  it  was  not  weak  of  him 
at  all,  "  but  we  all  have  our  tender  place,  and  my  Banker's  Book  is 
mine.  Besides,  it  isn't  as  if  you  wanted  it.  If  you  wanted  it,  of 
course — but  you  don't  want  it.  You  are  a  rich  man ;  you  are  mar- 
rying my  dear  Natalie  for  love,  not  for  money.  You  and  she  and 
my  grandchildren  will  have  it  all  at  my  death.  It  can  make  no 
difference  to  you  to  wait  a  few  years  till  the  old  man's  chair  at  the 
fireside  is  empty.  Will  you  say  the  fourth  part,  Richard,  instead  of 
the  half  ?  Twenty  thousand,"  pleaded  Sir  Joseph,  piteously.  "  I  can 
bear  twenty  thousand  off.  For  God's  sake  don't  ask  me  for  more !" 

The  lips  of  the  lawyer  twisted  themselves  sourly  into  an  ironical 
smile.  He  was  quite  as  fond  of  his  money  as  Sir  Joseph.  He  ought 
to  have  felt  for  his  client ;  but  rich  men  have  no  sympathy  with  one 
another.  Mr.  Dicas  openly  despised  Sir  Joseph. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  robin-redbreasts  in  the  shrubbery  out- 
side must  have  had  prodigious  balances  at  their  bankers ;  they  hop- 
ped up  on  the  window-sill  so  fearlessly ;  they  looked  in  with  so  lit 
tie  respect  at  the  two  rich  men. 


MISS   OB   MRS.?  345 

"  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense,  Richard,"  proceeded  Sir  Joseph. 
"  Speak  out.  Is  it  yes  or  no  ?" 

Turlington  struck  his  hand  excitedly  on  the  table,  and  burst  out 
on  a  sudden  with  the  answer  which  had  been  so  strangely  delayed. 

"  Twenty  thousand  with  all  my  heart !"  he  said.  "  On  this  con- 
dition, Graybrooke,  that  every  farthing  of  it  is  settled  on  Natalie, 
and  on  her  children  after  her.  Not  a  half-penny  to  me !"  he  cried 
magnanimously,  in  his  brassiest  tones.  "  Not  a  half-penny  to  me  !" 

Let  no  man  say  the  rich  are  heartless.  Sir  Joseph  seized  his  son- 
in-law's  hand  in  silence,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Mr.  Dicas,  habitually  a  silent  man,  uttered  the  first  two  words 
that  had  escaped  him  since  the  business  began.  "  Highly  credita- 
ble," he  said,  and  took  a  note  of  his  instructions  on  the  spot. 

From  that  point  the  business  of  the  settlement  flowed  smoothly 
on  to  its  destined  end.  Sir  Joseph  explained  his  views  at  the  full- 
est length,  and  the  lawyer's  pen  kept  pace  with  him.  Turlington, 
remaining  in  his  place  at  the  table,  restricted  himself  to  a  purely 
passive  part  in  the  proceedings.  He  answered  briefly  when  it  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  speak,  and  he  agreed  with  the  two  elders 
in  every  thing.  A  man  has  no  attention  to  place  at  the  disposal  of 
other  people  when  he  stands  at  a  crisis  in  his  life.  Turlington  stood 
at  that  crisis,  at  the  trying  moment  when  Sir  Joseph's  unexpected 
proposal  pressed  instantly  for  a  reply.  Two  merciless  alternatives 
confronted  him.  Either  lie  must  repay  the  borrowed  forty  thousand 
pounds  on  the  day  when  repayment  was  due,  or  he  must  ask  Bulpit 
Brothers  to  grant  him  an  extension  of  time,  and  so  inevitably  pro- 
voke an  examination  into  the  fraudulent  security  deposited  with 
the  firm,  which  could  end  in  but  one  way.  His  last,  literally  his 
last  chance,  after  Sir  Joseph  had  diminished  the  promised  dowry 
by  one  half,  was  to  adopt  the  high-minded  tone  which  became  his 
position,  and  to  conceal  the  truth  until  he  could  reveal  it  to  his 
father-in-law  in  the  privileged  character  of  Natalie's  husband.  "  I 
owe  forty  thousand  pounds,  sir,  in  a  fortnight's  time,  and  I  have  not 
got  a  farthing  of  my  own.  Pay  for  me,  or  you  will  see  your  son-in- 
law's  name  in  the  Bankrupt's  List."  For  his  daughter's  sake — who 
could  doubt  it  ? — Sir  Joseph  would  produce  the  money.  The  one 
thing  needful  was  to  be  married  in  time.  If  either  by  accident  or 
treachery  Sir  Joseph  was  led  into  deferring  the  appointed  day,  by 
so  much  as  a  fortnight  only,  the  fatal  "  call "  would  come,  and  the 
firm  of  Pizzituti,  Turlington,  and  Branca  would  appear  in  the  Ga- 
zette. 

So  he  reasoned,  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  terrible  discovery 
which  was  soon  to  reveal  to  him  that  Natalie  was  the  wife  of  an- 
other man. 

"Richard!" 


346  MISS   OE  MRS.? 

"  Mr.  Turlington !" 

He  started,  and  roused  his  attention  to  present  things.  Sir  Jo- 
seph on  one  side,  and  the  lawyer  on  the  other,  were  both  appealing 
to  him,  and  both  regarding  him  with  looks  of  amazement. 

"  Have  you  done  with  the  settlement  ?"  he  asked. 

"My  dear  Richard,  we  have  done  with  it  long  since,"  replied  Sir 
Joseph.  "  Have  you  really  not  heard  what  I  have  been  saying  for 
the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  to  good  Mr.  Dicas  here  ?  What  can  you 
have  been  thinking  of?" 

Turlington  did  not  attempt  to  answer  the  question.  "Am  I  in- 
terested," he  asked,  "  in  what  you  have  been  saying  to  Mr.  Dicas  ?" 

"  You  shall  judge  for  yourself,"  answered  Sir  Joseph,  mysterious- 
ly;  "I  have  been  giving  Mr.  Dicas  his  instructions  for  making  my 
Will.  I  wish  the  Will  and  the  Marriage-Settlement  to  be  executed 
at  the  same  time.  Read  the  instructions,  Mr.  Dicas." 

Sir  Joseph's  contemplated  Will  proved  to  have  two  merits — it  was 
simple  and  it  was  short.  Excepting  one  or  two  trifling  legacies  to 
distant  relatives,  he  had  no  one  to  think  of  (Miss  Lavinia  being  al- 
ready provided  for)  but  his  daughter  and  the  children  who  might 
be  born  of  her  marriage.  In  its  various  provisions,  made  with  these 
two  main  objects  in  view,  the  Will  followed  the  precedents  estab- 
lished in  such  cases.  It  differed  in  no  important  respect  from  the 
tens  of  thousands  of  other  wills  made  under  similar  circumstances. 
Sir  Joseph's  motive  in  claiming  special  attention  for  it  still  remained 
unexplained,  when  Mr.  Dicas  reached  the  clause  devoted  to  the  ap- 
pointment of  executors  and  trustees ;  and  announced  that  this  por- 
tion of  the  document  was  left  in  blank. 

"  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke,  are  you  prepared  to  name  the  persons 
whom  you  appoint?"  asked  the  lawyer. 

Sir  Joseph  rose,  apparently  for  the  purpose  of  giving  special  im- 
portance to  the  terms  in  which  he  answered  his  lawyer's  question. 

"  I  appoint,"  he  said,  "  as  sole  executor  and  trustee — Richard  Tur- 
lington." 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  astonish  Mr.  Dicas.  Sir  Joseph's  reply 
absolutely  confounded  him.  He  looked  across  the  table  at  his  cli- 
ent and  delivered  himself  on  this  special  occasion  of  as  many  as 
three  words. 

"  Are  you  mad  ?"  he  asked. 

Sir  Joseph's  healthy  complexion  slightly  reddened.  "  I  never  was  in 
more  complete  possession  of  myself,  Mr.  Dicas,  than  at  this  moment." 

Mr.  Dicas  was  not  to  be  silenced  in  that  way. 

"Are  you  aware  of  what  you  do,"  persisted  the  lawyer,  "if  you  ap- 
point Mr.  Turlington  as  sole  executor  and  trustee  ?  You  put  it  in 
the  power  of  your  daughter's  husband,  sir,  to  make  away  with  every 
farthing  of  your  money  after  your  death." 


MISS    OR   MRS.?  347 

Turlington  had  hitherto  listened  with  an  appearance  of  interest 
in  the1  proceedings,  which  he  assumed  us  an  act  of  politeness.  To 
his  view,  the  future  was  limited  to  the  date  at  which  Bulpit  Broth- 
ers had  a  right  to  claim  the  repayment  of  their  loan.  The  Will  was 
a  matter  of  no  earthly  importance  to  him,  by  comparison  with  the 
infinitely  superior  interest  of  the  Marriage.  It  was  only  when  the 
lawyer's  brutally  plain  language  forced  his  attention  to  it  that  the 
question  of  his  pecuniary  interest  in  his  father-in-law's  death  as- 
-uiii.-i i  its  fit  position  in  his  mind. 

His  color  rose ;  and  he  too  showed  that  he  was  offended  by  what 
Mr.  Dicas  had  just  said. 

"  Not  a  word,  Richard  !  Let  me  speak  for  you  as  well  as  for  my- 
self," said  Sir  Joseph.  "  For  seven  years  past,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  the  lawyer,  "  I  have  been  accustomed  to  place  the  most  un- 
limited trust  in  Richard  Turlington.  His  disinterested  advice  has 
enabled  me  largely  to  increase  my  income,  without  placing  a  farthing 
of  the  principal  in  jeopardy.  On  more  than  one  occasion,  I  have  en- 
treated him  to  make  use  of  my  money  in  his  business.  He  has  inva- 
riably refused  to  do  so.  Even  his  bitterest  enemies,  sir,  have  been 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  my  interests  were  safe  when  committed 
to  his  care.  Am  I  to  begin  distrusting  him,  now  that  I  am  about  to 
give  him  my  daughter  in  marriage  ?  Am  I  to  leave  it  on  record 
that  I  doubt  him  for  the  first  time — when  my  Will  is  opened  after 
my  death  ?  No !  I  can  confide  the  management  of  the  fortune  which 
my  child  will  inherit  after  me  to  no  more  competent  or  more  hon 
orable  hands  than  the  hands  of  the  man  who  is  to  marry  her.  I 
maintain  my  appointment,  Mr.  Dicas!  I  persist  in  placing  the  whole 
responsibility  under  my  Will  in  my  son-in-law's  care." 

Turlington  attempted  to  speak.  The  lawyer  attempted  to  speak. 
Sir  Joseph — with  a  certain  simple  dignity  which  had  its  effect  on 
both  of  them — declined"  to  hear  a  word  on  either  side.  "  No,  Rich- 
ard !  as  long  as  I  am  alive  this  is  my  business,  not  yours.  No,  Mr. 
Dicas !  I  understand  that  it  is  your  business  to  protest  profession- 
ally. You  have  protested.  Fill  in  the  blank  space  as  I  have  told 
you.  Or  leave  the  instructions  on  the  table,  and  I  will  send  for  the 
nearest  solicitor  to  complete  them  in  your  place." 

Those  words  placed  the  lawyer's  position  plainly  before  him.  He 
had  no  choice  but  to  do  as  he  was  bid,  or  to  lose  a  good  client.  He 
did  as  he  was  bid,  and  grimly  left  the  room. 

Sir  Joseph,  with  old-fashioned  politeness,  followed  him  as  far  as 
the  hall.  Returning  to  the  library  to  say  a  few  friendly  words  l»e- 
fore  finally  dismissing  the  subject  of  the  Will,  he  found  himself 
seized  by  the  arm,  and  dragged  without  ceremony,  in  Turlington's 
powerful  grasp,  to  the  window. 

"  Richard  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  does  this  mean?" 


348  MISS   OE  MBS.  ? 

"Look!"  cried  the  other,  pointing  through  the  window  to  a 
grassy  walk  in  the  grounds,  bounded  on  either  side  by  shrubberies, 
and  situated  at  a  little  distance  from  the  house.  "Who  is  that 
man  ? — quick  !  before  we  lose  sight  of  him — the  man  crossing  there 
from  one  shrubbery  to  the  other  ?"  Sir  Joseph  failed  to  recognize 
the  figure  before  it  disappeared.  Turlington  whispered  fiercely, 
close  to  his  ear — "  Launcelot  Linzie !" 

In  perfect  good  faith  Sir  Joseph  declared  that  the  man  could  not 
possibly  have  been  Launce.  Turlington's  frenzy  of  jealous  suspicion 
was  not  to  be  so  easily  calmed.  He  asked  significantly  for  Natalie. 
She  was  reported  to  be  walking  in  the  grounds.  "  I  knew  it !"  he 
said,  with  an  oath— and  hurried  out  into  the  grounds  to  discover 
the  truth  for  himself. 

Some  little  time  elapsed  before  he  came  back  to  the  house.  He 
had  discovered  Natalie — alone.  Not  a  sign  of  Launce  had  reward- 
ed his  search.  For  the  hundredth  time  he  had  offended  Natalie. 
For  the  hundredth  time  he  was  compelled  to  appeal  to  the  indul- 
gence of  her  father  and  her  aunt.  "  It  won't  happen  again,"  he 
said,  sullenly  penitent.  "  You  will  find  me  quite  another  man  when 
I  have  got  you  all  at  my  house  in  the  country.  Mind !"  he  burst 
out,  with  a  furtive  look,  which  expressed  his  inveterate  distrust  of 
Natalie  and  of  every  one  about  her.  "  Mind !  it's  settled  that  you 
all  come  to  me  in  Somersetshire,  on  Monday  next."  Sir  Joseph  an- 
swered rather  dryly  that  it  was  settled.  Turlington  turned  to  leave 
the  room — and  suddenly  came  back.  "  It's  understood,"  he  went 
on,  addressing  Miss  Lavinia,  "  that  the  seventh  of  next  month  is  the 
date  fixed  for  the  marriage.  Not  a  day  later !"  Miss  Lavinia  re- 
plied, rather  dryly  on  her  side,  "  Of  course,  Richard ;  not  a  day 
later."  He  muttered,  "All  right" — and  hurriedly  left  them. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Natalie  came  in,  looking  a  little  confused. 

"  Has  he  gone  ?"  she  asked,  whispering  to  her  aunt. 

Relieved  on  this  point,  she  made  straight  for  the  library — a  room 
which  she  rarely  entered  at  that  or  any  other  period  of  the  day. 
Miss  Lavinia  followed  her,  curious  to  know  what  it  meant.  Natalie 
hurried  to  the  window,  and  waved  her  handkerchief — evidently 
making  a  signal  to  some  one  outside.  Miss  Lavinia  instantly  joined 
her,  and  took  her  sharply  by  the  hand. 

"Is  it  possible,  Natalie?"  she  asked.  "Has  Launcelot  Linzie 
really  been  here,  unknown  to  your  father  or  to  me  ?" 

"  Where  is  the  harm  if  he  has  ?"  answered  Natalie,  with  a  sudden 
outbreak  of  temper.  "  Am  I  never  to  see  my  cousin  again,  because 
Mr.  Turlington  happens  to  be  jealous  of  him  ?" 

She  suddenly  turned  away  her  head.  The  rich  color  flowed  over 
her  face  and  neck.  Miss  Lavinia,  proceeding  sternly  with  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  necessary  reproof,  was  silenced  midway  by  a  new 


MISS   OR  MBS.?  849 

change  in  her  niece's  variable  temper.  Natalie  burst  into  tears. 
Satisfied  with  this  appearance  of  sincere  contrition,  the  old  lady 
consented  to  overlook  what  had  happened ;  and,  for  this  occasion 
only,  to  keep  her  niece's  secret.  They  would  all  be  in  Somerset- 
shire, she  remarked,  before  any  more  breaches  of  discipline  could  be 
committed.  Richard  had  fortunately  made  no  discoveries ;  and  the 
matter  might  safely  be  trusted,  all  tilings  considered,  to  rest  where 
it  was. 

Miss  Lavinia  might  possibly  have  taken  a  less  hopeful  view  of  the 
circumstances,  if  she  had  known  that  one  of  the  men-servants  at 
Muswell  Hill  was  in  Richard  Turlington's  pay,  and  that  this  serv- 
ant had  seen  Launce  leave  the  grounds  by  the  back-garden  gate. 


NINTH  SCENE. 
THE  DRAWING-ROOM. 

"AMELIA!" 

"  Say  something." 

"Ask  him  to  sit  down." 

Thus  addressing  one  another  in  whispers,  the  three  stepdaughters 
of  Lady  Winwood  stood  bewildered  in  their  own  drawing  -  room, 
helplessly  confronting  an  object  which  appeared  before  them  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door. 

The  date  was  the  23d  of  December.  The  time  was  between  two 
and  three  in  the  afternoon.  The  occasion  was  the  return  of  the 
three  sisters  from  the  Committee  meeting  of  the  Sacred  Concerts' 
Society.  And  the  object  was  Richard  Turlington. 

He  stood  hat  in  hand  at  the  door,  amazed  by  his  reception.  "  I 
have  come  up  this  morning  from  Somersetshire,"  he  said.  "  Haven't 
you  heard  I  A  matter  of  business  at  the  office  has  forced  me  to 
leave  my  guests  at  my  house  in  the  country.  I  return  to  them  to- 
morrow. When  I  say  my  guests,  I  mean  the  Graybrookes.  Don't 
you  know  they  are  staying  with  me  ?  Sir  Joseph  and  Miss  Lavinia 
and  Natalie  ?''  On  the  utterance  of  Natalie's  name,  the  sisters 
roused  themselves.  They  turned  about  and  regarded  each  other 
with  looks  of  dismay.  Turlington's  patience  began  to  fail  him. 
"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  all  this  means  ?"  he  said, 
a  little  sharply.  "Miss  Lavinia  asked  me  to  call  here  when  she 
heard  I  was  coming  to  town.  I  was  to  take  charge  of  a  pattern  for 
i  dress,  which  she  said  you  would  give  me.  You  ought  to  have  re- 
csived  a  telegram  explaining  it  all,  hours  since.  Has  the  message 
not  reached  you  ?" 

The  leading  spirit  of  the  three  sisters  was  Miss  Amelia.    She  was 


350  MISS   OR   MRS.  ? 

the  first  who  summoned  presence  of  mind  enough  to  give  a  plain 
answer  to  Turlington's  plain  question. 

"  We  received  the  telegram  this  morning,"  she  said.  "  Something 
has  happened  since  which  has  shocked  and  surprised  us.  We  beg 
your  pardon."  She  turned  to  one  of  her  sisters.  "  Sophia,  the  pat- 
tern is  ready  in  the  drawer  of  that  table  behind  you.  Give  it  to 
Mr.  Turlington." 

Sophia  produced  the  packet.  Before  she  handed  it  to  the  visitor, 
she  looked  at  her  sister.  "  Ought  we  to  let  Mr.  Turlington  go,"  she 
asked,  "  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ?" 

Amelia  considered  silently  with  herself.  Dorothea,  the  third  sis- 
ter (who  had  not  spoken  yet),  came  forward  with  a  suggestion. 
She  proposed,  before  proceeding  further,  to  inquire  whether  Lady 
Winwood  was  in  the  house.  The  idea  was  instantly  adopted.  So- 
phia rang  the  bell.  Amelia  put  the  questions  when  the  servant  ap- 
peared. 

Lady  Winwood  had  left  the  house  for  a  drive  immediately  after 
luncheon.  Lord  Winwood  —  inquired  for  next  —  had  accompanied 
her  ladyship.  No  message  had  been  left  indicating  the  hour  of 
their  return. 

The  sisters  looked  at  Turlington,  uncertain  what  to  say  or  do  next. 
Miss  Amelia  addressed  him  as  soon  as  the  servant  had  left  the  room. 

"  Is  it  possible  for  you  to  remain  here  until  either  my  father  or 
Lady  Winwood  return  ?"  she  asked. 

"  It  is  quite  impossible.     Minutes  are  of  importance  to  me  to-day." 

"  Will  you  give  us  one  of  your  minutes  ?  We  want  to  consider 
something  which  we  may  have  to  say  to  you  before  you  go." 

Turlington,  wondering,  took  a  chair.  Miss  Amelia  put  the  case 
before  her  sisters  from  the  sternly  conscientious  point  of  view,  at 
the  opposite  end  of  the  room. 

"  We  have  not  found  out  this  abominable  deception  by  any  under- 
hand means,"  she  said.  "  The  discovery  has  been  forced  upon  us, 
and  we  stand  pledged  to  nobody  to  keep  the  secret.  Knowing  as 
we  do  how  cruelly  this  gentleman  has  been  used,  it  seems  to  me 
that  we  are  bound  in  honor  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  truth.  If  we  re- 
main silent  we  make  ourselves  Lady  Winwood's  accomplices.  I,  for 
one — I  don't  care  what  may  come  of  it — refuse  to  do  that." 

Her  sisters  agreed  with  her.  The  first  chance  their  clever  step- 
mother had  given  them  of  asserting  their  importance  against  hers 
was  now  in  their  hands.  Their  jealous  hatred  of  Lady  Winwood 
assumed  the  mask  of  Duty — duty  toward  an  outraged  and  deceived 
fellow-creature.  Could  any  earthly  motive  be  purer  than  that  ? 
"  Tell  him,  Amelia  I"  cried  the  two  young  ladies,  with  the  headlong 
recklessness  of  the  sex  which  only  stops  to  think  when  the  time 
for  reflection  has  gone  by. 


MISS    OR   MRS.?  801 

A  vague  sense  of  something  wrong  began  to  stir  uneasily  in  Tur- 
lington's mind. 

•'  Don't  let  me  hurry  you,"  he  said,  "  but  if  you  really  have  any 
tiling  to  tell  me — " 

Mi>s  Amelia  summoned  her  courage,  and  began. 

"  We  have  something  very  dreadful  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  inter- 
rupting him.  "  You  have  been  presented  in  this  house,  Mr.  Tur- 
lington, as  a  gentleman  engaged  to  marry  Lady  Winwood's  cousin, 
Miss  Natalie  Graybrooke."  She  paused  there — at  the  outset  of  the 
disclosure.  A  sudden  change  of  expression  passed  over  Turling- 
ton's face,  which  daunted  her  for  the  moment.  "  We  have  hitherto 
understood,"  she  went  on,  u  that  you  were  to  be  married  to  that 
young  lady  early  in  next  month." 

"  Well  ?" 

He  could  say  that  one  word.  Looking  at  their  pale  faces,  and 
their  eager  eyes,  he  could  say  no  more. 

"  Take  care !"  whispered  Dorothea,  in  her  sister's  ear.  "  Look  at 
him,  Amelia  !  Not  too  soon." 

Amelia  went  on  more  carefully. 

"  We  have  just  returned  from  a  musical  meeting,"  she  said.  "  One 
o£the  ladies  there  was  an  acquaintance,  a  former  school-fellow  of 
ours.  She  is  the  wife  of  the  rector  of  St.  Columb  Major — a  large 
church,  far  from  this — at  the  East  End  of  London." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  the  woman  or  the  church,"  interposed 
Turlington,  sternly. 

"  I  must  beg  you  to  wait  a  little.  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  want  to 
tell  you  unless  I  refer  to  the  rector's  wife.  She  knows  Lady  Win- 
wood  by  name.  And  she  heard  of  Lady  Winwood  recently  under 
very  strange  circumstances — circumstances  connected  with  a  signa- 
ture in  one  of  the  books  of  the  church." 

Turlington  lost  his  self-control.  "  You  have  got  something  against 
my  Natalie,"  he  burst  out ;  ''  I  know  it  by  your  whispering,  I  see  it 
in  your  looks  1  Say  it  at  once  in  plain  words." 

There  was  no  trifling  with  him  now.  In  plain  words  Amelia 
said  it. 

******* 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  They  could  hear  the  sound  of 
passing  footsteps  in  the  street.  He  stood  perfectly  still  on  the  spot 
where  they  had  striu-k  him  dumb  by  the  disclosure,  supporting  him- 
self with  his  right  hand  laid  on  the  head  of  a  sofa  near  him.  The 
sisters  drew  back  horror-struck  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 
His  face  turned  them  cold.  Through  the  mute  misery  which  it  had 
expressed  at  first,  there  appeared,  slowly  forcing  its  way  to  view,  a 
look  of  deadly  vengeance  which  froze  them  to  the  soul.  They  whis- 
pered feverishly  one  to  the  other,  without  knowing  what  they  were 

15 


352  MISS   OB  MfcB.  ? 

talking  of,  without  hearing  their  own  voices.  One  of  them  said, 
"  Ring  the  bell !"  Another  said,  "  Offer  him  something,  he  will 
faint."  The  third  shuddered,  and  repeated,  over  and  over  again, 
"  Why  did  we  do  it  ?  Why  did  we  do  it  ?" 

He  silenced  them  on  the  instant  by  speaking  on  his  side.  He 
came  on  slowly,  by  a  step  at  a  time,  with  the  big  drops  of  agony 
falling  slowly  over  his  rugged  face.  He  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
"  Write  me  down  the  name  of  the  church — there."  He  held  out  his 
open  pocket-book  to  Amelia  while  he  spoke.  She  steadied  herself, 
and  wrote  the  address.  She  tried  to  say  a  word  to  soften  him. 
The  word  died  on  her  lips.  There  was  a  light  in  his  eyes  as  they 
looked  at  her,  which  transfigured  his  face  to  something  superhuman 
and  devilish.  She  turned  away  from  him,  shuddering. 

He  put  the  book  back  in  his  pocket,  and  passed  his  handkerchief 
over  his  face.  After  a  moment  of  indecision,  he  suddenly  and  swift- 
ly stole  out  of  the  room,  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  their  calling  some- 
body in,  and  stopping  him.  At  the  door  he  turned  round  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  said,  "  You  will  hear  how  this  ends.  I  wish  you  good- 
morning." 

The  door  closed  on  him.  Left  by  themselves,  they  began  to  real- 
ize it.  They  thought  of  the  consequences  when  his  back  was  turn- 
ed and  it  was  too  late. 

The  Graybrookes  !  Now  he  knew  it,  what  would  become  of  the 
Graybrookes  ?  What  would  he  do  when  he  got  back  ?  Even  at  or- 
dinary times — when  he  was  on  his  best  behavior — he  was  a  rough 
man.  What  would  happen  ?  Oh,  good  God !  what  would  happen 
when  he  and  Natalie  next  stood  face  to  face?  It  was  a  lonely 
house — Natalie  had  told  them  about  it — no  neighbors  near ;  nobody 
by  to  interfere  but  the  weak  old  father  and  the  maiden  aunt.  Some- 
thing ought  to  be  done.  Some  steps  ought  to  be  taken  to  warn 
them.  Advice — who  could  give  advice  ?  Who  was  the  first  person 
who  ought  to  be  told  of  what  had  happened  ?  Lady  Winwood  ? 
No !  even  at  that  crisis  the  sisters  still  shrank  from  their  stepmother 
— still  hated  her  with  the  old  hatred !  Not  a  word  to  her  !  They 
owed  no  duty  to  Jier  !  Who  else  could  they  appeal  to  ?  To  their 
father  ?  Yes !  There  was  the  person  to  advise  them.  In  the  mean 
wliile,  silence  toward  their  stepmother — silence  toward  every  one 
till  their  father  came  back  ! 

They  waited  and  waited.  One  after  another  the  precious  hours, 
pregnant  with  the  issues  of  life  and  death,  followed  each  other  on 
the  dial.  Lady  Winwood  returned  alone.  She  had  left  her  hus- 
band at  the  House  of  Lords.  Dinner-time  came,  and  brought  with 
it  a  note  from  his  lordship.  There  was  a  debate  at  the  House. 
Lady  Winwood  and  his  daughters  were  not  to  wait  dinner  for  him. 


MIMtt    UU    MUM.  ?  358 


TENTH  SCENE. 

GREEN  ANCHOR   LANE. 

AN  hour  later  than  the  time  at  which  he  had  been  expected, 
Richard  Turlington  appeared  at  his  office  in  the  city. 

He  met  beforehand  all  the  inquiries- which  the  marked  change  in 
him  must  otherwise  have  provoked,  by  announcing  that  lie  was  ill. 
I5e fore  lie  proceeded  to  business,  he  asked  if  any  body  was  waiting 
to  see  him.  One  of  the  servants  from  Muswell  Hill  was  waiting 
with  another  pareel  for  Miss  Lavinia,  ordered  by  telegram  from  the 
country  that  morning.  Turlington  (after  ascertaining  the  servant's 
name)  received  the  man  in  his  private  room.  He  there  heard,  for 
the  first  time,  that  Launcelot  Linzie  had  been  lurking  in  the  grounds 
(exactly  as  he  had  supposed)  on  the  day  when  the  lawyer  took  his 
instructions  for  the  Settlement  and  the  Will. 

In  two  hours  more  Turlington's  work  was  completed.  On  leav- 
ing the  office — as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  door — he  turn- 
ed eastward,  instead  of  taking  the  way  that  led  to  his  own  house 
in  town.  Pursuing  his  course,  he  entered  the  labyrinth  of  streets 
which  led,  in  that  quarter  of  East  London,  to  the  unsavory  neigh- 
borhood of  the  riverside. 

By  this  time  his  mind  was  made  up.  The  forecast  shadow  of 
meditated  crime  traveled  before  him  already,  as  he  threaded  his 
way  among  his  fellow-men. 

He  had  been  to  the  vestry  of  St.  Columb  Major,  and  had  satisfied 
himself  that  he  was  misled  by  no  false  report.  There  was  the  en- 
try in  the  Marriage  Register.  The  one  unexplained  mystery  was  the 
mystery  of  Launce's  conduct  in  permitting  his  wife  to  return  to  her 
father's  house.  Utterly  unable  to  account  for  this  proceeding,  Tur- 
lington could  only  accept  facts  as  they  were,  and  determine  to  make 
the  most  of  his  time,  while  the  woman  who  had  deceived  him  was 
still  under  his  roof.  A  hideous  expression  crossed  his  face  as  he 
realized  the  idea  that  he  had  got  her  (unprotected  by  her  husband) 
in  his  house.  "  When  Launcelot  Linzie  does  come  to  claim  her,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  he  shall  find  I  have  been  even  with  him."  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  Was  it  possible  to  save  the  last  train  and  get 
back  that  night  ?  No — the  last  train  had  gone.  Would  she  take 
advantage  of  his  absence  to  escape  ?  He  had  little  fear  of  it.  She 
would  never  have  allowed  her  aunt  to  send  him  to  Lord  Winwood's 
house,  if  she  had  felt  the  slightest  suspicion  of  his  discovering  the 


354  MISS   OB  MBS.  ? 

truth  in  that  quarter.  Returning  by  the  first  train  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  might  feel  sure  of  getting  back  in  time.  Meanwhile,  he  had 
the  hours  of  the  night  before  him.  He  could  give  his  mind  to  the 
serious  question  that  must  be  settled  before  he  left  London  —  the 
question  of  repaying  the  forty  thousand  pounds.  There  was  but 
one  way  of  getting  the  money  now.  Sir  Joseph  had  executed  his 
Will ;  Sir  Joseph's  death  would  leave  his  sole  executor  and  trustee 
(the  lawyer  had  said  it !)  master  of  his  fortune.  Turlington  deter- 
mined to  be  master  of  it  in  four-and-twenty  hours  —  striking  the 
blow,  without  risk  to  himself,  by  means  of  another  hand.  In  the 
face  of  the  probabilities,  in  the  face  of  the  facts,  he  had  now  firm- 
ly persuaded  himself  that  Sir  Joseph  was  privy  to  the  fraud  that 
had  been  practiced  on  him.  The  Marriage-Settlement,  the  Will, 
the  presence  of  the  family  at  his  country  house — all  these  he  be- 
lieved to  be  so  many  stratagems  invented  to  keep  him  deceived  un- 
til the  last  moment.  The  truth  was  in  those  words  which  he  had 
overheard  between  Sir  Joseph  and  Launce — and  in  Launce's  pres- 
ence (privately  encouraged,  no  doubt)  at  Muswell  Hill.  "  Her  fa- 
ther shall  pay  me  for  it  doubly :  with  his  purse  and  with  his  life." 
With  that  thought  in  his  heart,  Richard  Turlington  wound  his  way 
through  the  streets  by  the  river-side,  and  stopped  at  a  blind  alley 
called  Green  Anchor  Lane,  infamous  to  this  day  as  the  chosen  re- 
sort of  the  most  abandoned  wretches  whom  London  can  produce. 

The  policeman  at  the  corner  cautioned  him  as  he  turned  into  the 
alley.  "They  won't  hurt  wie/"  he  answered,  and  walked  on  to  a 
public-house  at  the  bottom  of  the  lane. 

The  landlord  at  the  door  silently  recognized  him,  and  led  the 
way  in.  They  crossed  a  room  filled  with  sailors  of  all  nations  drink- 
ing ;  ascended  a  staircase  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  stopped  at 
the  door  of  the  room  on  the  second  floor.  There  the  landlord  spoke 
for  the  first  time.  "  He  has  outrun  his  allowance,  sir,  as  usual.  You 
will  find  him  with  hardly  a  rag  on  his  back.  I  doubt  if  he  will  last 
much  longer.  He  had  another  fit  of  the  horrors  last  night,  and  the 
doctor  thinks  badly  of  him."  With  that  introduction  he  opened 
the  door,  and  Turlington  entered  the  room. 

On  the  miserable  bed  lay  a  gray-headed  old  man  of  gigantic  stat- 
ure, with  nothing  on  him  but  a  ragged  shirt  and  a  pair  of  patched, 
filthy  trowsers.  At  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  a  bottle  of  gin  on  the 
rickety  table  between  them,  sat  two  hideous,  leering,  painted  mon- 
sters, wearing  the  dress  of  women.  The  smell  of  opium  was  in  the 
room,  as  well  as  the  smell  of  spirits.  At  Turlington's  appearance, 
the  old  man  rose  on  the  bed  and  welcomed  him  with  greedy  eyes 
and  outstretched  hand. 

"  Money,  master !"  he  called  out  hoarsely.  "  A  crown  piece  in  ad- 
vance, for  the  sake  of  old  times !" 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  355 

Turlington  turned  to  the  women  without  answering,  purse  in 
hand. 

"  His  clothes  are  at  the  pawnbroker's,  of  course.     How  much  ?" 

"Thirty  shillings." 

"  Bring  them  here,  and  be  quick  about  it.  You  will  find  it  worth 
your  while  when  you  come  buck." 

The  women  took  the  pawnbroker's  tickets  from  the  pockets  of 
the  man's  trowsers  and  hurried  out. 

Turlington  closed  the  door,  and  seated  himself  by  the  bedside. 
He  laid  his  hand  familiarly  on  the  giant's  mighty  shoulder,  looked 
him  full  in  the  face,  and  said,  in  a  whisper, 

"  Thomas  Wildfang !" 

The  man  started,  and  drew  his  huge  hairy  hand  across  his  eyes, 
as  if  in  doubt  whether  he  was  waking  or  sleeping.  "  It's  better 
than  ten  years,  master,  since  you  called  me  by  my  name.  If  I  am 
Thomas  Wildfang.  what  are  you?" 

"  Your  captain,  once  more." 

Thomas  Wildfang  sat  up  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  spoke  bia 
next  words  cautiously  in  Turlington's  ear. 

''Another  man  in  the  way?" 

"  Yes." 

The  giant  shook  his  bald,  bestial  head  dolefully.  "  Too  late. 
I'm  past  the  job.  Look  here." 

He  held  up  his  hand,  and  showed  it  trembling  incessantly.  "  I'm 
an  old  man,"  he  said,  and  let  his  hand  drop  heavily  again  on  the 
bed  beside  him. 

Turlington  looked  at  the  door,  and  whispered  back, 

"  The  man  is  as  old  as  you  are.     And  the  money  is  worth  having." 

"  How  much  ?" 

UA  hundred  pounds." 

The  eyes  of  Thomas  Wildfang  fastened  greedily  on  Turlington's 
face.     "  Let's  hear,"  he  said.     "  Softly,  captain.     Let's  hear." 
******* 

When  the  women  came  back  with  the  clothes,  Turlington  had 
left  the  room.  Their  promised  reward  lay  waiting  for  them  on 
the  table,  and  Thomas  Wildfang  was  eager  to  dress  himself  and  be 
gone.  They  could  get  but  one  answer  from  him  to  every  question 
they  put.  He  had  business  in  hand,  which  was  not  to  be  delayed. 
They  would  see  him  again  in  a  day  or  two.  with  money  in  his  purse. 
With  that  assurance  he  took  his  cudgel  from  the  corner  of  the 
room,  and  stalked  out  swiftly  by  the  back  door  of  the  house  into 
the  night. 


356  MISS   OR  MRS.? 


ELEVENTH  SCENE. 

OUTSIDE     THE     HOUSE. 

THE  evening  was  chilly,  but  not  cold  for  the  time  of  yeai.  There 
was  no  moon.  The  stars  were  out,  and  the  wind  was  quiet.  Upon 
the  whole,  the  inhabitants  of  the  little  Somersetshire  village  of  Bax- 
dale  agreed  that  it  was  as  fine  a  Christmas  -  eve  as  they  could  re- 
member for  some  years  past. 

Toward  eight  in  the  evening  the  one  small  street  of  the  village 
was  empty,  except  at  that  part  of  it  which  was  occupied  by  the 
public-house.  For  the  most  part,  people  gathered  round  their  fire- 
sides, with  an  eye  to  their  suppers,  and  watched  the  process  of  cook- 
ing comfortably  indoors.  The  old  bare,  gray  church,  situated  at 
some  little  distance  from  the  village,  looked  a  lonelier  object  than 
usual  in  the  dim  starlight.  The  vicarage,  nestling  close  under  the 
shadow  of  the  church-tower,  threw  no  illumination  of  fire-light  or 
candle-light  on  the  dreary  scene.  The  clergyman's  shutters  fitted 
well,  and  the  clergyman's  curtains  were  closely  drawn.  The  one 
ray  of  light  that  cheered  the  wintry  darkness  streamed  from  the  un- 
guarded window  of  a  lonely  house,  separated  from  the  vicarage  by 
the  whole  length  of  the  church-yard.  A  man  stood  at  the  window, 
holding  back  the  shutter,  and  looking  out  attentively  over  the  dim 
void  of  the  burial-ground.  The  man  was  Richard  Turlington.  The 
room  in  which  he  was  watching  was  a  room  in  his  own  house. 

A  momentary  spark  of  light  flashed  up,  as  from  a  kindled  match, 
in  the  burial-ground.  Turlington  instantly  left  the  empty  room  in 
which  he  had  been  watching.  Passing  down  the  back  garden  of 
the  house,  and  crossing  a  narrow  lane  at  the  bottom  of  it,  he  open- 
ed a  gate  in  a  low  stone  wall  beyond,  and  entered  the  church-yard. 
The  shadowy  figure  of  a  man  of  great  stature,  lurking  among  the 
graves,  advanced  to  meet  him.  Midway  in  the  dark  and  lonely 
place  the  two  stopped  and  consulted  together  in  whispers.  Tur- 
lington spoke  first. 

"Have  you  taken  up  your  quarters  at  the  public-house  in  the 
village  ?" 

"  Yes,  master." 

"  Did  you  find  your  way,  while  the  daylight  lasted,  to  the  desert- 
ed malt-house  behind  my  orchard  wall  ?" 

"  Yes,  master." 

"  Now  listen — we  have  no  time  to  lose.     Hide  there,  behind  that 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  357 

monument.  Before  nine  o'clock  to-night  you  will  see  me  cross  the 
church-yard,  as  tar  as  this  place,  with  the  man  you  are  to  wait  for. 
He  is  going  to  spend  an  hour  with  the  vicar,  at  the  house  yonder. 
I  shall  stop  short  here,  and  say  to  him,  'You  can't  miss  your  way  in 
the  dark  now — I  will  go  back.'  When  I  am  tar  enough  away  from 
him,  I  shall  blow  a  call  on  my  whistle.  The  moment  you  hear  the 
call,  follow  the  man,  and  drop  him  before  he  gets  out  of  the  church- 
van  1.  Have  you  got  your  cudgel  ?" 

Thomas  Wild  fang  held  up  his  cudgel.  Turlington  took  him  by 
the  arm,  and  felt  it  suspiciously. 

"  You  have  had  an  attack  of  the  horrors  already,"  he  said.  "  What 
does  this  trembling  mean  ?" 

He  took  a  spirit -flask  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke.  Thomas 
Wildfang  snatched  it  out  of  his  hand,  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught. 
''All  right  now,  master,"  he  said.  Turlington  felt  his  arm  once  more. 
It  was  steadier  already.  Wildfang  brandished  his  cudgel,  and  struck 
a  heavy  blow  with  it  on  one  of  the  turf  mounds  near  them.  "  Will 
that  drop  him,  captain?"  he  asked. 

Turlington  went  on  with  his  instructions. 

"  Rob  him  when  you  have  dropped  him.  Take  his  money  and 
his  jewelry.  I  want  to  have  the  killing  of  him  attributed  to  rob- 
bery as  the  motive.  Make  sure  before  you  leave  him  that  he  ia 
dead.  Then  go  to  the  malt-house.  There  is  no  fear  of  your  being 
seen ;  all  the  people  will  be  indoors,  keeping  Christmas-eve.  You 
will  find  a  change  of  clothes  hidden  in  the  malt-house,  and  an  old 
caldron  full  of  quicklime.  Destroy  the  clothes  you  have  got  on, 
and  dress  yourself  in  the  other  clothes  that  you  tind.  Follow  the 
cross-road,  and  when  it  brings  you  into  the  high-road,  turn  to  the 
left;  a  four -mile  walk  will  take  you  to  the  town  of  Harminster. 
Sleep  there  to-night,  and  travel  to  London  by  the  train  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  next  day  go  to  my  office,  see  the  head  clerk,  and  say,  '  I 
have  come  to  sign  my  receipt.1  Sign  it  in  your  own  name,  and  you 
will  receive  your  hundred  pounds.  There  are  your  instructions. 
Do  you  understand  them?" 

Wildfang  nodded  his  head  in  silent  token  that  he  understood, 
and  disappeared  again  among  the  graves.  Turlington  went  back 
to  the  house. 

He  had  advanced  midway  across  the  garden,  when  he  was  star- 
tled by  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  lane — at  that  part  of  it  which 
skirted  one  of  the  corners  of  the  house.  Hastening  forward,  he 
placed  himself  behind  a  projection  in  the  wall,  so  as  to  see  the  per- 
son pass  across  the  stream  of  liirht  from  the  uncovered  window  of 
the  room  that  he  had  left.  The  stranger  was  walking  rapidly.  All 
Turlington  could  see  as  he  crossed  the  field  of  light  was,  that  his 
hat  was  pulled  over  his  eyes,  and  that  he  had  a  thick  beard  and 


358  MISS    OE   MRS.  ? 

mustache.  Describing  the  man  to  the  servant  on  entering  the 
house,  he  was  informed  that  a  stranger  with  a  large  beard  had  been 
seen  about  the  neighborhood  for  some  days  past.  The  account  he 
had  given  of  himself  stated  that  he  was  a  surveyor,  engaged  in  tak- 
ing measurements  for  a  new  map  of  that  part  of  the  country,  shortly 
to  be  published. 

The  guilty  mind  of  Turlington  was  far  from  feeling  satisfied  with 
the  meagre  description  of  the  stranger  thus  rendered.  He  could 
not  be  engaged  in  surveying  in  the  dark.  What  could  he  want  in 
the  desolate  neighborhood  of  the  house  and  church-yard  at  that 
time  of  night  ? 

The  man  wanted — what  the  man  found  a  little  lower  down  the 
lane,  hidden  in  a  dismantled  part  of  the  church-yard  wall — a  letter 
from  a  young  lady.  Read  by  the  light  of  the  pocket-lantern  which 
he  carried  with  him,  the  letter  first  congratulated  this  person  on  the 
complete  success  of  his  disguise — and  then  promised  that  the  writer 
would  be  ready  at  her  bedroom  window  for  flight  the  next  morning, 
before  the  house  was  astir.  The  signature  was  "  Natalie,"  and  the 
person  addressed  was  "  Dearest  Launce." 

In  the  mean  while,  Turlington  barred  the  window  shutters  of  the 
room,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  wanted  only  a  quarter  to  nine 
o'clock.  He  took  his  dog -whistle  from  the  chimney-piece,  and 
turned  his  steps  at  once  in  the  direction  of  the  drawing-room,  in 
which  his  guests  were  passing  the  evening. 


TWELFTH  SCENE. 

INSIDE   THE   HOUSE. 

THE  scene  in  the  drawing-room  represented  the  ideal  of  domes- 
tic comfort.  The  fire  of  wood  and  coal  mixed  burned  brightly ;  the 
lamps  shed  a  soft  glow  of  light;  the  solid  shutters  and  the  thick 
red  curtains  kept  the  cold  night  air  on  the  outer  side  of  two  long 
windows,  which  opened  on  the  back  garden.  Snug  arm-chairs 
were  placed  in  every  part  of  the  room.  In  one  of  them  Sir  Joseph 
reclined,  fast  asleep ;  in  another,  Miss  Lavinia  sat  knitting ;  a  third 
chair,  apart  from  the  rest,  near  a  round  table  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  was  occupied  by  Natalie.  Her  head  was  resting  on  her  hand, 
an  unread  book  lay  open  on  her  lap.  She  looked  pale  and  harassed ; 
anxiety  and  suspense  had  worn  her  down  to  the  shadow  of  her  for- 
mer self.  On  entering  the  room,  Turlington  purposely  closed  the 
door  with  a  bang.  Natalie  started.  Miss  Lavinia  looked  up  re- 
proachfully. The  object  was  achieved — Sir  Joseph  was  roused  from 
his  sleep. 


MISS    OR   MRS.  ?  359 

"  If  you  are  going  to  the  vicar's  to-night,  Graybrooke,"  said  Tur- 
,  "  it's  time  you  were  off, isn't  it?" 

Sir  Joseph  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  man- 
trl -|>i< •(•(•.  ••  Yes.  yes,  Richard,"  he  answered,  drowsily,  "I  suppose  I 
must  go.  Where  is  my  hat  ?" 

His  sister  and  his  daughter  both  joined  in  trying  to  persuade  him 
to;  send  an  excuse  instead  of  groping  his  way  to  the  vicarage  in  the 
dark.  Sir  Joseph  hesitated,  as  usual.  He  and  the  vicar  had  run 
up  a  sudden  friendship,  on  the  strength  of  their  common  enthusiasm 
for  the  old-fashioned  game  of  backgammon.  Victorious  over  his 
opponent  on  the  previous  evening  at  Turlington's  house,  Sir  Joseph 
had  promised  to  pass  that  evening  at  the  vicarage,  and  give  the 
vicar  his  revenge.  Observing  his  indecision,  Turlington  cunningly 
irritated  him  by  affecting  to  believe  that  he  was  really  unwilling  to 
venture  out  in  the  dark.  "  I'll  see  you  safe  across  the  church-yard," 
he  said ;  "  and  the  vicar's  servant  will  see  you  safe  back."  The 
tone  in  which  he  spoke  instantly  roused  Sir  Joseph.  "I  am  not  in 
my  second  childhood  yet,  Richard,"  he  replied,  testily.  "  I  can  find 
my  way  by*  myself."  He  kissed  his  daughter  on  the  forehead.  "  No 
fear,  Natalie.  I  shall  be  back  in  time  for  the  mulled  claret.  No, 
Richard,  I  won't  trouble  you."  He  kissed  his  hand  to  his  sister  and 
went  out  into  the  hall  for  his  hat ;  Turlington  following  him  with  a 
rough  apology,  and  asking  as  a  favor  to  be  permitted  to  accompany 
him  part  of  the  way  only.  The  ladies,  left  behind  in  the  drawing- 
room,  heard  the  apology  accepted  by  kind-hearted  Sir  Joseph.  The 
two  went  out  together. 

"  Have  you  noticed  Richard  since  his  return  ?"  asked  Miss  La- 
vinia.  "  I  fancy  he  must  have  heard  bad  news  in  London.  He 
looks  as  if  he  had  something  on  his  mind." 

"  I  haven't  remarked  it,  aunt." 

For  the  time,  no  more  was  said.  Miss  Lavinia  went  monotonous- 
ly on  with  her  knitting.  Natalie  pursued  her  own  anxious  thoughts 
over  the  unread  pages  of  the  book  in  her  lap.  Suddenly  the  deep 
silence  out  of  doors  and  in  was  broken  by  a  shrill  whistle,  sounding 
from  the  direction  of  the  church-yard.  Natalie  started  with  a  faint 
cry  of  alarm.  Miss  Lavinia  looked  up  from  her  knitting. 

"  My  dear  child,  your  nerves  must  be  sadly  out  of  order.  What 
is  there  to  be  frightened  at  ?" 

"  I  ain  not  very  well,  aunt.  It  is  so  still  here  at  night,  the  slight- 
est noises  startle  me." 

There  was  another  interval  of  silence.  It  was  past  nine  o'clock 
when  they  heard  the  back  door  opened  and  closed  again.  Turling- 
ton came  hurriedly  into  the  drawing-room,  as  if  he  had  some  reason 
for  wishing  to  rejoin  the  ladies  as  soon  as  possible.  To  the  surprise 
of  both  of  them,  he  sat  down  abruptly  in  the  corner,  with  his  face  to 

15* 


360  MT88    OB   AIRS.? 

the  wall,  and  took  up  the  newspaper,  without  casting  a  look  at  them 
or  uttering  a  word. 

"  Is  Joseph  safe  at  the  vicarage  ?"  asked  Miss  Lavinia. 

"All  right."  He  gave  the  answer  in  a  short,  surly  tone,  still  with- 
out looking  round. 

Miss  Lavinia  tried  him  again.  "  Did  you  hear  a  whistle  while  you 
were  out?  It  quite  startled  Natalie  in  the  stillness  of  this  place." 

He  turned  half-way  round.  "  My  shepherd,  I  suppose,"  he  said 
after  a  pause—"  whistling  for  his  dog."  He  turned  back  again  and 
immersed  himself  in  his  newspaper. 

Miss  Lavinia  beckoned  to  her  niece  and  pointed  significantly  to 
Turlington.  After  one  reluctant  look  at  him,  Natalie  laid  her  head 
wearily  on  her  aunt's  shoulder.  "  Sleepy,  my  dear?"  whispered  the 
old  lady.  "  Uneasy,  aunt — I  don't  know  why,"  Natalie  whispered 
back.  "  I  would  give  the  world  to  be  in  London,  and  to  hear  the 
carriages  going  by,  and  the  people  talking  in  the  street." 

Turlington  suddenly  dropped  his  newspaper.  "  What's  the  secret 
between  you  two  ?"  he  called  out  roughly.  "  What  are  you  whisper- 
ing about?" 

"We  wish  not  to  disturb  you  over  your  reading,  that  is  all,"  said 
Miss  Lavinia,  coldly.  "  Has  any  thing  happened  to  vex  you,  Rich- 
ard ?" 

"  What  the  devil  makes  you  think  that  ?" 

The  old  lady  was  offended,  and  showed  it  by  saying  nothing 
more.  Natalie  nestled  closer  to  her  aunt.  One  after  another  the 
clock  ticked  off  the  minutes  with  painful  distinctness  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  room.  Turlington  suddenly  threw  aside  the  newspaper 
and  left  his  corner.  "  Let's  be  good  friends !"  he  burst  out,  with  a 
clumsy  assumption  of  gayety.  "This  isn't  keeping  Christmas-eve. 
Let's  talk  and  be  sociable.  Dearest  Natalie !"  He  threw  his  arm 
roughly  round  IVatalie,  and  drew  her  by  main  force,  away  from  her 
aunt.  She  turned  deadly  pale,  and  struggled  to  release  herself.  "1 
am  suffering — I  am  ill-  -lot  me  go  !"  He  was  deaf  to  her  entreaties. 
"What!  your  husband  that  is  to  be,  treated  in  this  way?  Mustn't 
I  have  a  kiss?— I  will!"  He  held  her  closer  with  one  hand,  and, 
seizing  her  head  with  the  other,  tried  to  turn  her  lips  to  him.  She 
resisted  with  the  inbred  nervous  strength  which  the  weakest  wom- 
an living  has  in  reserve  when  she  is  outraged.  Half  indignant,  half 
terrified,  at  Turlington's  roughness,  Miss  Lavinia  rose  to  interfere. 
In  a  moment  more  he  would  have  had  two  women  to  overpower  in- 
stead of  one,  when  a  noise  outside  the  window  suddenly  suspended 
the  ignoble  struggle. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel-walk  which  ran  be- 
tween the  house  wall  and  the  garden  lawn.  It  was  followed  by  a 
tap — a  single  faint  tap,  no  more — on  one  of  the  panes  of  glass. 


MISS   OR   MRS.  ?  361 

They  all  three  stood  still.  For  a  moment  more  nothing  was  au- 
dible. Then  there  was  a  heavy  shock,  as  of  something  falling  out- 
side. Then  a  groan,  then  another  interval  of  silence — a"  long  si- 
lence, interrupted  no  more. 

Turlington's  arm  dropped  from  Natalie.  She  drew  back  to  her 
aunt.  Looking  ut  him  instinctively,  in  the  natural  expectation  that 
lie  would  take  the  lead  in  penetrating  the  mystery  of  what  had  hap- 
pened outside  the  window,  the  two  women  were  thunderstruck  to 
see  that  lie  was,  to  all  appearance,  even  more  startled  and  more 
helpless  than  they  were.  "Richard,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  pointing  to 
the  window,  "there  is  something  wrong  out  there.  See  what  it  is." 
IFe  stood  motionless,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  her,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  window,  his  face  livid  with  terror. 

The  silence  outside  was  broken  once  more;  this  time  by  a  call 
for  help. 

A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  Natalie.  The  voice  outside — rising 
wildly,  then  suddenly  dying  away  again — was  not  entirely  strange 
to  her  ears.  She  tore  aside  the  curtain.  With  voice  and  hand  she 
roused  her  aunt  to  help  her.  The  two  lifted  the  heavy  bar  from  its 
socket ;  they  opened  the  shutters  and  the  window.  The  cheerful 
light  of  the  room  flowed  out  over  the  body  of  a  prostrate  man,  ly- 
ing on  his  face.  They  turned  the  man  over.  Natalie  lifted  his 
head. 

Her  father ! 

His  face  was  bedabbled  with  blood.  A  wound,  a  frightful  wound, 
was  visible  on  the  side  of  his  bare  head,  high  above  the  ear.  He 
looked  at  her,  his  eyes  recognized  her,  before  he  fainted  again  in 
her  arms.  His  hands  and  his  clothes  were  covered  with  earth 
stains.  He  must  have  traversed  some  distance;  in  that  dreadful 
condition  he  must  have  faltered  and  fallen  more  than  once  before 
he  reached  the  house.  His  sister  wiped  the  blood  from  his  face. 
His  daughter  called  on  him  frantically  to  forgive  her  before  he  died 
— the  harmless,  gentle,  kind-hearted  father,  who  had  never  said  a 
hard  word  to  her  !  The  father  whom  she  had  deceived  ! 

The  terrified  servants  hurried  into  the  room.  Their  appearance 
roused  their  master  from  the  extraordinary  stupor  that  had  seized 
him.  He  was  at  the  window  before  the  footman  could  get  there. 
The  two  lifted  Sir  Joseph  into  the  room,  and  laid  him  on  the  sofa. 
Natalie  knelt  by  him,  supporting  his  head.  Miss  Lavinia  stanched 
the  flowing  blood  with  her  handkerchief.  The  women  -  servants 
brought  linen  and  cold  water.  The  man  hurried  away  for  the  doc- 
tor, who  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  village.  Left  alone  again 
with  Turlington,  Natalie  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  im- 
movable scrutiny  on  her  father's  head.  He  never  said  a  word.  He 
looked,  looked,  looked  at  the  wound. 


362  MISS   OR   MRS.  ? 

The  doctor  arrived.  Before  either  the  daughter  or  the  sister  of 
the  injured  man  could  put  the  question,  Turlington  put  it — "  Will 
he  live  or 'die  ?" 

The  doctor's  careful  finger  probed  the  wound. 

"  Make  your  minds  easy.  A  little  lower  down,  or  in  front,  the 
blow  might  have  been  serious.  As  it  is,  there  is  no  harm  done. 
Keep  him  quiet,  and  he  will  be  all  right  again  in  two  or  three  days." 

Hearing  those  welcome  words,  Natalie  and  her  aunt  sank  on  their 
knees  in  silent  gratitude.  After  dressing  the  wound,  the  doctor 
looked  round  for  the  master  of  the  house.  Turlington,  who  had 
been  so  breathlessly  eager  but  a  few  minutes  since,  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  interest  in  the  case  now.  He  stood  apart,  at  the  window, 
looking  out  toward  the  church -yard,  thinking.  The  questions 
which  it  was  the  doctor's  duty  to  ask  were  answered  by  the  ladies. 
The  servants  assisted  in  examining  the  injured  man's  clothes :  they 
discovered  that  his  watch  and  purse  were  both  missing.  When  it 
became  necessary  to  carry  him  up  stairs,  it  was  the  footman  who 
assisted  the  doctor.  The  footman's  master,  without  a  word  of  ex- 
planation, walked  out  bare  -  headed  into  the  back  garden,  on  the 
search,  as  the  doctor  and  the  servants  supposed,  for  some  trace  of 
the  robber  who  had  attempted  Sir  Joseph's  life. 

His  absence  was  hardly  noticed  at  the  time.  The  difficulty  of 
conveying  the  wounded  man  to  his  room  absorbed  the  attention  of 
all  the  persons  present. 

Sir  Joseph  partially  recovered  his  senses  while  they  were  taking 
him  up  the  steep  and  narrow  stairs.  Carefully  as  they  carried  the 
patient,  the  motion  wrung  a  groan  from  him  before  they  reached 
the  top.  The  bedroom  corridor,  in  the  rambling,  irregularly  built 
house,  rose  and  fell  on  different  levels.  At  the  door  of  the  first  bed- 
chamber the  doctor  asked  a  little  anxiously  if  that  was  the  room. 
No;  there  were  three  more  stairs  to  go  down,  and  a  corner  to  turn, 
before  they  could  reach  it.  The  first  room  was  Natalie's.  She  in- 
stantly offered  it  for  her  father's  use.  The  doctor  (seeing  that  it 
was  the  airiest  as  well  as  the  nearest  room)  accepted  the  proposal. 
Sir  Joseph  had  been  laid  comfortably  in  his  daughter's  bed ;  the 
doctor  had  just  left  them,  with  renewed  assurances  that  they  need 
feel  no  anxiety,  when  they  heard  a  heavy  step  below  stairs.  Tur- 
lington had  re-entered  the  house. 

(He  had  been  looking,  as  they  had  supposed,  for  the  ruffian  who 
had  attacked  Sir  Joseph ;  with  a  motive,  however,  for  the  search  at 
which  it  was  impossible  for  other  persons  to  guess.  His  own  safety 
was  now  bound  up  in  the  safety  of  Thomas  Wildfang.  As  soon  as 
he  was  out  of  sight  in  the  darkness,  he  made  straight  for  the  malt- 
house.  The  change  of  clothes  was  there  untouched ;  not  a  trace  of 
his  accomplice  was  to  be  seen.  Where  else  to  look  for  him  it  was 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  863 

impossible  to  toll.  Turlington  had  no  alternative  hut  to  go  hack  to 
tin-  house,  and  ascertain  if  suspicion  had  heen  aroused  in  his  ab- 
sence.) 

He  had  only  to  ascend  the  stairs,  and  to  see,  through  the  open 
door,  that  Sir  Joseph  had  heen  placed  in  his  daughter's  room. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  he  asked,  roughly. 

Before  it  was  possible  to  answer  him  the  footman  appeared  with 
:i  me-sige.  The  doctor  had  come  back  to  the  door  to  say  that  he 
would  take  on  himself  the  necessary  duty  of  informing  the  consta- 
ble of  what  had  happened,  on  his  return  to  the  village.  Turlington 
started,  and  changed  color.  If  Wildfang  was  found  by  others,  and 
(|iifsti(ined  in  his  employer's  absence,  serious  consequences  might 
follow.  "  The  constable  is  my  business,"  said  Turlington,  hurriedly 
descending  the  stairs ;  "  I'll  go  with  the  doctor."  They  heard  him 
open  the  door  below,  then  close  it  again  (as  if  some  sudden  thought 
had  struck  him),  and  call  to  the  footman.  The  house  was  badly 
provided  with  servants'  bedrooms.  The  women-servants  only  slept 
indoors.  The  footman  occupied  a  room  over  the  stables.  Natalie 
and  her  aunt  heard  Turlington  dismiss  the  man  for  the  night,  an 
hour  earlier  than  usual  at  least.  His  next  proceeding  was  stranger 
still.  Looking  cautiously  over  the  stairs,  Natalie  saw  him  lock  all 
the  doors  on  the  ground -floor  and  take  out  the  keys.  When  he 
went  away,  she  heard  him  lock  the  front  door  behind  him.  Incred- 
ible as  it  seemed,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact — the  inmates 
of  the  house  were  imprisoned  till  he  came  back.  What  did  it  mean  ? 

(It  meant  that  Turlington's  vengeance  still  remained  to  be  wreak- 
ed on  the  woman  who  had  deceived  him.  It  meant  that  Sir  Jo- 
seph's life  still  stood  between  the  man  who  had  compassed  his 
death  and  the  money  which  the  man  was  resolved  to  have.  It 
meant  that  Richard  Turlington  was  driven  to  bay,  and  that  the  hor- 
ror and  the  peril  of  the  night  were  not  at  an  end  yet.) 

Natalie  and  her  aunt  looked  at  each  other  across  the  bed  on 
which  Sir  Joseph  lay.  He  had  fallen  into  a  kind  of  doze ;  no  en- 
lightenment could  come  to  them  from  him.  They  could  only  ask 
each  other,  with  heating  hearts  and  baffled  minds,  what  Richard's 
conduct  meant — they  could  only  feel  instinctively  that  some  dread- 
ful discovery  was  hanging  over  them.  The  aunt  was  the  calmer  of 
the  two — there  was  no  secret  weighing  heavily  on  her  conscience. 
She  could  feel  the  consolations  of  religion.  "  Our  dear  one  is  spared 
to  us,  my  love,"  said  the  old  lady,  gently.  "  God  has  heen  good  to 
us.  We  are  in  his  hands.  If  we  know  that,  we  know  enough." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  door-bell.  The  women- 
servants  crowded  into  the  bedroom  in  alarm.  Strong  in  numbers, 
and  encouraged  by  Natalie — who  roused  herself  and  led  the  way — 
they  confronted  the  risk  of  opening  the  window  and  of  venturing 


364  MISS    OR    MRS.  ? 

out  on  the  balcony  which  extended  along  that  side  of  the  house. 
A  man  was  dimly  visible  below.  He  called  to  them  in  thick,  un- 
steady accents.  The  servants  recognized  him  :  he  was  the  telegraph- 
ic messenger  from  the  railway.  They  went  down  to  speak  to  him 
— and  returned  with  a  telegram  which  had  been  pushed  in  under 
the  door.  The  distance  from  the  station  was  considerable ;  the  mes- 
senger had  been  "  keeping  Christmas  "  in  more  than  one  beer-shop 
on  his  way  to  the  house  ;  and  the  delivery  of  the  telegram  had 
delayed  for  some  hours.  It  was  addressed  to  Natalie.  She  opened 
it — looked  at  it — dropped  it — and  stood  speechless ;  her  lips  parted 
in  horror,  her  eyes  staring  vacantly  straight  before  her. 

Miss  Lavinia  took  the  telegram  from  the  floor,  and  read  these 
lines : 

"Lady  Winwood,  Hertford  Street,  London.  To  Natalie  Gray- 
brooke,  Church  Meadows,  Baxdale,  Somersetshire.  Dreadful  news. 
R.  T.  has  discovered  your  marriage  to  Launce.  The  truth  has  been 
kept  from  me  till  to-day  (24th).  Instant  flight  with  your  husband 
is  your  only  chance.  I  would  have  communicated  with  Launce,  but 
I  do  not  know  his  address.  You  will  receive  this,  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve, before  R.  T.  can  return  to  Somersetshire.  Telegraph  back,  I 
entreat  you,  to  say  that  you  are  safe.  I  shall  follow  my  message  if 
I  do  not  hear  from  you  in  reasonable  tic  s.  ' 

Miss  Lavinia  lifted  her  gray  head,  and  "loosed  at  her  niece.  "  Is 
this  true  ?"  she  said — and  pointed  to  the  venerable  face  laid  back, 
white,  on  the  white  pillow  of  the  bed.  Natalie  sank  forward  as  her 
eyes  met  the  eyes  of  her  aunt.  Miss  Lavinia  saved  her  from  falling 
insensible  on  the  floor. 

******* 

The  confession  had  been  made.  The  words  of  penitence  and  the 
words  of  pardon  had  been  spoken.  The  peaceful  face  of  the  father 
still  lay  hushed  in  rest.  One  by  one  the  minutes  succeeded  each 
other  uneventfully  in  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  night.  It  was  al- 
most a  relief  when  the  silence  was  disturbed  once  more  by  another 
sound  outside  the  house.  A  pebble  was  thrown  up  at  the  window, 
and  a  voice  called  out  cautiously  "  Miss  Lavinia  !" 

They  recognized  the  voice  of  the  man-servant,  and  at  once  open- 
ed the  window. 

He  had  something  to  say  to  the  ladies  in  private.  How  could 
he  say  it  ?  A  domestic  circumstance  which  had  been  marked  by 
Launce,  as  favorable  to  the  contemplated  elopement,  was  now  no- 
ticed by  the  servant  as  lending  itself  readily  to  effecting  the  neces- 
sary communication  with  the  ladies.  The  lock  of  the  gardener's 
tool  -  house  (in  the  shrubbery  close  by)  was  under  repair ;  and  the 
gardener's  ladder  was  accessible  to  any  one  who  wanted  it.  At  the 
short  height  of  the  balcony  from  the  ground,  the  ladder  was.  more 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  365 

than  long  enough  for  the  purpose  required.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
M-rvant  had  mounted  t<>  the  balcony,  and  could  speak  to  Natalie 
and  her  aunt  at  the  window. 

-I  can't  iv.-t  quirt."  said  the  man.  "I'm  off  on  the  sly  to  see 
what's  going  on  down  in  the  village.  It's  hard  on  ladies  like  you 
to  IK-  locked  in  here.  Is  there  any  thing  I  can  do  for  either  of  you  ?" 

Natalie  took  up  Lady  Winwood's  telegram.  u  Launce  ought  to 
see  this,"  she  said  to  her  aunt.  "  He  will  be  here  at  day-break,"  she 
added,  in  a  whisper,  "  it'  I  don't  tell  him  what  has  happened." 

Mi-s  Lavinia  turned  pale.  "If  he  and  Richard  meet — "  she  be- 
iran.  "  Tell  him !"  she  added,  hurriedly — "  tell  him  before  it  is  too 

late  f 

Natalie  wrote  a  few  lines  (addressed  to  Launce  in  his  assumed 
name  at  his  lodgings  in  the  village)  inclosing  Lady  Winwood's  tele- 
gram, and  entreating  him  to  do  nothing  rash.  When  the  servant 
had  disappeared  with  the  letter,  there  was  one  hope  in  her  mind  and 
in  her  aunt's  mind,  which  each  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  to  the 
other — the  hope  that  Launce  would  face  the  very  danger  that  they 
dreaded  for  him,  and  come  to  the  house. 

They  had  not  been  long  alone  again,  when  Sir  Joseph  drowsily 
opened  his  eyes  and  asked  what  they  were  doing  in  his  room.  They 
told  him  gently  that  he  was  ill.  He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  head, 
and  said  they  were  right,  and  so  dropped  off  again  into  slumber. 
Worn  out  by  the  emotions  through  which  they  had  passed,  the  two 
women  silently  waited  for  the  march  of  events.  The  same  stupor 
of  resignation  possessed  them  both.  They  had  secured  the  door 
and  the  window.  They  had  prayed  together.  They  had  kissed  the 
quiet  face  on  the  pillow.  They  had  said  to  each  other,  "  We  will 
live  with  him  or  die  with  him  as  God  pleases."  Miss  Lavinia  sat 
by  the  bedside.  Natalie  was  on  a  stool  at  her  feet — with  her  eyes 
closed,  and  her  head  on  her  aunt's  knee. 

Time  went  on.  The  clock  in  the  hall  had  struck — ten  or  eleven, 
they  were  not  sure  which — when  they  heard  the  signal  which  warn- 
ed them  of  the  servant's  return  from  the  village.  He  brought  news, 
and  more  than  news;  he  brought  a  letter  from  Launce. 

Natalie  read  these  lines: 

"I  shall  be  with  you,  dearest,  almost  as  soon  as  you  receive  this. 
The  bearer  will  tell  you  what  has  happened  in  the  village — your 
note  throws  a  new  light  on  it  all.  I  only  remain  behind  to  go  to 
the  vicar  (who  is  also  the  magistrate  here),  and  declare  myself  your 
husband.  All  disguise  must  be  at  an  end  now.  My  place  is  with 
you  and  yours.  It  is  even  worse  than  your  wor-t  fears.  Turlington 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  attack  on  your  father.  .Judge  if  you  have 
not  need  of  your  husband's  protection  after  that! — L." 

Natalie  handed  the  letter  to  her  aunt,  and  pointed  to  the  sentence 


366  MISS   OB  MRS.? 

which  asserted  Turlington's  guilty  knowledge  of  the  attempt  on  Sir 
Joseph's  life.  In  silent  horror  the  two  women  looked  at  each  other, 
recalling  what  had  happened  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  understand- 
ing it  now.  The  servant  roused  them  to  a  sense  of  present  things, 
by  entering  on  the  narrative  of  his  discoveries  in  the  village. 

The  place  was  all  astir  when  he  reached  it.  An  old  man — a 
stranger  in  Baxdale — had  been  found  lying  in  the  road,  close  to  the 
church,  in  a  fit ;  and  the  person  who  had  discovered  him  had  been 
no  other  than  Launce  himself.  He  had,  literally,  stumbled  over  the 
body  of  Thomas  Wildfang  in  the  dark,  on  his  way  back  to  his  lodg- 
ings in  the  village. 

"  The  gentleman  gave  the  alarm,  miss,"  said  the  servant,  describ- 
ing the  event,  as  it  had  been  related  to  him,  "  and  the  man — a  huge, 
big  old  man — was  carried  to  the  inn.  The  landlord  identified  him ; 
he  had  taken  lodgings  at  the  inn  that  day,  and  the  constable  found 
valuable  property  on  him — a  purse  of  money  and  a  gold  watch  and 
chain.  There  was  nothing  to  show  who  the  money  and  the  watch 
belonged  to.  It  was  only  when  my  master  and  the  doctor  got  to 
the  inn  that  it  was  known  whom  he  had  robbed  and  tried  to  mur- 
der. All  he  let  out  in  his  wanderings  before  they  came,  was  that 
some  person  hac1  set  him  on  to  do  it.  He  called  the  person  '  Captain,' 
and  sometimes  '  Captain  Goward.'  It  was  thought — if  you  could 
trust  the  ravings  of  a  madman — that  the  fit  took  him  while  he  was 
putting  his  hand  on  Sir  Joseph's  heart  to  feel  if  it  had  stopped  beat- 
ing. A  sort  of  vision  (as  I  understand  it)  must  have  overpowered 
him  at  the  moment.  They  tell  me  he  raved  about  the  sea  bursting 
into  the  church-yard,  and  a  drowning  sailor  floating  by  on  a  hen- 
coop ;  a  sailor  who  dragged  him  down  to  hell  by  the  hair  of  his  head, 
and  such  like  horrible  nonsense,  miss.  He  was  still  screeching,  at 
the  worst  of  the  fit,  when  my  master  and  the  doctor  came  into  the 
room.  At  sight  of  one  or  other  of  them — it  is  thought  of  Mr.  Tur- 
lington, seeing  that  he  came  first — he  held  his  peace  on  a  sudden, 
and  then  fell  back  in  convulsions  in  the  arms  of  the  men  who  were 
holding  him.  The  doctor  gave  it  a  learned  name,  signifying  drink- 
madness,  and  said  the  case  was  hopeless.  However,  he  ordered  the 
room  to  be  cleared  of  the  crowd  to  see  what  he  could  do.  My  mas- 
ter was  reported  to  be  still  with  the  doctor,  waiting  to  see  whether 
the  man  lived  or  died,  when  I  left  the  village,  miss,  with  the  gentle- 
man's answer  to  your  note.  I  didn't  dare  stay  to  hear  how  it  ended, 
for  fear  of  Mr.  Turlington's  finding  me  out." 

Having  reached  the  end  of  his  narrative,  the  man  looked  round 
restlessly  toward  the  window.  It  was  impossible  to  say  when  his 
master  might  not  return,  and  it  might  be  as  much  as  his  life  was 
worth  to  be  caught  in  the  house  after  he  had  been  locked  out  of  it. 
He  begged  permission  to  open  the  window,  and  make  his  escape 


MISS    OR   MRS.?  367 

back  to  the  stables  while  there  was  still  time.  Aa  he  unbarred  the 
shutter  they  were  startled  by  a  voice  hailing  them  from  below.  It 
was  Launce's  voice  calling  to  Natalie.  The  servant  disappeared, 
and  Natalie  was  in  Launce's  arms  before  she  could  breathe  again. 

For  one  delicious  moment  she  let  her  head  lie  on  his  breast;  then 
she  suddenly  pushed  him  away  from  her.  "  Why  do  you  come  here  ? 
He  will  kill  you  if  he  finds  you  in  the  house.  Where  ia  he  ?" 

Launce  knew  even  less  of  Turlington's  movements  than  the  serv- 
ant. ''  Wherever  he  is,  thank  God,  I  am  here  before  him !"  That* 
was  all  the  answer  he  could  give. 

Natalie  and  her  aunt  heard  him  in  silent  dismay.  Sir  Joseph 
woke,  and  recognized  Launce  before  a  word  more  could  be  said. 
"  Ah,  my  dear  boy !"  he  murmured,  faintly.  "  It's  pleasant  to  see 
you  again.  How  do  you  come  here  ?"  He  was  quite  satisfied  with 
the  first  excuse  that  suggested  itself.  "We'll  talk  about  it  to-mor- 
row," he  said,  and  composed  himself  to  rest  again. 

Natalie  made  a  second  attempt  to  persuade  Launce  to  leave  the 
house. 

"  We  don't  know  what  may  have  happened,"  she  said.  "  He  may 
have  followed  you  on  your  way  here.  He  may  have  purposely  let 
you  enter  his  house.  Leave  us  while  you  have  the  chance." 

Miss  Lavinia  added  her  persuasions.  They  were  useless.  Launce 
quietly  closed  the  heavy  window-shutters,  lined  with  iron,  and  put 
up  the  bar.  Natalie  wrung  her  hands  in  despair. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  magistrate  ?"  she  asked.  "  Tell  us,  at 
least,  are  you  here  by  his  advice  ?  Is  he  coming  to  help  us  ?" 

Launce  hesitated.  If  he  had  told  the  truth,  he  must  have  ac- 
knowledged that  he  was  there  in  direct  opposition  to  the  magis- 
trate's advice.  He  answered  evasively,  "  If  the  vicar  doesn't  come, 
the  doctor  will.  I  have  told  him  Sir  Joseph  must  be  moved.  Cheer 
up,  Natalie !  The  doctor  will  be  here  as  soon  as  Turlington." 

As  the  name  passed  his  lips — without  a  sound  outside  to  prepare 
them  for  what  was  coming — the  voice  of  Turlington  himself  sud- 
denly penetrated  into  the  room,  speaking  close  behind  the  window, 
on  the  outer  side. 

"  You  have  broken  into  my  house  in  the  night,"  said  the  voice. 
"And  you  don't  escape  thin  way." 

Miss  Lavinia  sank  on  her  knees.  Natalie  flew  to  her  father.  His 
eyes  were  wide  open  in  terror ;  he  moaned,  feebly  recognizing  the 
voice.  The  next  sound  that  was  heard  was  the  sound  made  by  the 
removal  of  the  ladder  from  the  balcony.  Turlington,  having  de- 
scended by  it,  had  taken  it  away.  Natalie  had  but  too  accurately 
guessed  what  would  happen.  The  deatli  of  the  villain's  accomplice 
had  freed  him  from  all  apprehen>ion  in  that  quarter.  He  had  de- 
liberately dogged  Launce's  steps,  and  had  deliberately  allowed 


368  MISS    OR   MBS.? 

to  put  himself  in  the  wrong  by  effecting  a  secret  entrance  into  the 
house. 

There  was  an  interval — a  horrible  interval— and  then  they  heard 
the  front  door  opened.  Without  stoppkfg  (judging  by  the  absence 
of  sound)  to  close  it  again,  Turlington  rapidly  ascended  the  stairs 
and  tried  the  locked  door. 

"  Come  out,  and  give  yourself  up !"  he  called  through  the  door. 
"  I  have  got  my  revolver  with  me,  and  I  have  a  right  to  fire  on  a 
man  who  has  broken  into  my  house.  If  the  door  isn't  opened  be- 
fore I  count  three,  your  blood  be  on  your  own  head.  One !" 

Launce  was  armed  with  nothing  but  his  stick.  He  advanced, 
without  an  instant's  hesitation,  to  give  himself  up.  Natalie  threw 
her  arms  round  him  and  elapsed  him  fast  before  he  could  reach  the 
door. 

"  Two  !"  cried  the  voice  outside,  as  Launce  struggled  to  force  her 
from  him.  At  the  same  moment  his  eye  turned  toward  the  bed.  It 
was  exactly  opposite  the  door  —  it  was  straight  in  the  line  of  fire  ! 
Sir  Joseph's  life  (as  Turlington  had  deliberately  calculated)  was  act- 
ually in  greater  danger  than  Launce's  life.  He  tore  himself  free, 
rushed  to  the  bed,  and  took  the  old  man  in  his  arms  to  lift  him  out. 

"  Three !" 

The  crash  of  the  report  sounded.  The  bullet  came  through  the 
door,  grazed  Launce's  left  arm,  and  buried  itself  in  the  pillow,  at 
the  very  place  on  which  Sir  Joseph's  head  had  rested  the  moment 
before.  Launce  had  saved  his  father-in-law's  life.  Turlington  had 
fired  his  first  shot  for  the  money,  and  had  not  got  it  yet. 

They  were  safe  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  on  the  same  side  as  the 
door — Sir  Joseph,  helpless  as  a  child,  in  Launce's  arms;  the  women 
pale,  but  admirably  calm.  They  were  safe  for  the  moment,  when 
the  second  bullet  (fired  at  an  angle)  tore  its  way  through  the  wall 
on  their  right  hand. 

"  I  hear  you,"  cried  the  voice  of  the  miscreant  on  the  other  side 
of  the  door.  "  I'll  have  you  yet — through  the  wall." 

There  was  a  pause.  They  heard  his  hand  sounding  the  wall,  to 
find  out  where  there  was  solid  wood  in  the  material  of  which  it  was 
built,  and  where  there  was  plaster  only.  At  that  dreadful  moment 
Launce's  composure  never  left  him.  He  laid  Sir  Joseph  softly  on 
the  floor,  and  signed  to  Natalie  and  her  aunt  to  lie  down  by  him  in 
silence.  Their  lives  depended  now  on  neither  their  voices  nor  their 
movements  telling  the  murderer  where  to  fire.  He  chose  his  place. 
The  barrel  of  the  revolver  grated  as  he  laid  it  against  the  wall.  He 
touched  the  hair-trigger.  A  faint  click  was  the  only  sound  that  fol- 
lowed. The  third  barrel  had  missed  fire. 

They  heard  him  ask  himself,  with  an  oath, "  What's  wrong  with  it 
now  ?" 


MISS   OR   MRS.  ?  369 

There  was  a  pause  of  silence. 

Was  he  examining  the  weapon  ? 

Before  they  could  ask  themselves  the  question,  the  report  of  the 
exploding  charge  burst  on  their  ears.  It  was  instantly  followed  by 
a  heavy  fall.  They  looked  at  the  opposite  wall  of  the  room.  No 
sign  of  a  bullet  there  or  anywhere. 

Launce  signed  to  them  not  to  move  yet.  They  waited,  and  list- 
ened. Nothing  stirred  on  the  landing  outside. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  disturbance  of  the  silence  in  the  lower  re- 
gions— a  clamor  of  many  voices  at  the  open  house  door.  Had  the 
firing  of  the  revolver  l«?en  heard  at  the  vicarage?  Yes!  They  rec- 
ognized the  vicar's  voice  among  the  others.  A  moment  more,  and 
they  heard  a  general  exclamation  of  horror  on  the  stairs.  Launce 
opened  the  door  of  the  room.  He  instantly  closed  it  again  before 
Natalie  could  follow  him. 

The  dead  body  of  Turlington  lay  on  the  landing  outside.  The 
charge  in  the  fourth  barrel  of  the  revolver  had  exploded  while  he 
was  looking  at  it.  The  bullet  had  entered  his  mouth  and  killed  him 
on  the  spot. 


370  MISS    OE   MRS.? 


DOCUMENTARY  HINTS,  IN  CONCLUSION. 


FIRST  HINT. 

(Derived  from  Lady  WinwoocTs  Card-Rack) 

"  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke  and  Miss  Graybrooke  request  the  honor 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Winwood's  company  to  dinner,  on  Wednesday, 
February  10,  at  half -past  seven  o'clock.  To  meet  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Launcelot  Linzie  on  their  return." 


SECOND  HINT. 

(Derived  from  a  recent  Money  Article  in  a  morning  Newspaper.) 

"We  are  requested  to  give  the  fullest  contradiction  to  unfavor- 
able rumors  lately  in  circulation  respecting  the  firm  of  Pizzituti, 
Turlington,  and  Branca.  Some  temporary  derangement  in  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  business  was  undoubtedly  produced  in  consequence 
of  the  sudden  death  of  the  lamented  managing  partner,  Mr.  Turling- 
ton, by  the  accidental  discharge  of  a  revolver  which  he  was  examin- 
ing. Whatever  temporary  obstacles  may  have  existed  are  now  over- 
come. We  are  informed,  on  good  authority,  that  the  well  -  known 
house  of  Messrs.  Bulpit  Brothers  has  an  interest  in  the  business,  and 
will  carry  it  on  until  further  notice." 


THE  DEAD  ALIVE. 


THE  DEAD  ALIVE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    SICK    MAN. 

"  HEART  all  right,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Lungs  all  right.  No  or- 
ganic disease  that  I  can  discover.  Philip  Lefrank,  don't  alarm 
yimrsi'lf.  You  are  not  going  to  die  yet.  The  disease  you  are  suf- 
fering from  is — overwork.  The  remedy  in  your  case  is — rest." 

So  the  doctor  spoke,  in  my  chambers  in  the  Temple  (London) ; 
having  been  sent  for  to  see  me  about  half  an  hour  after  I  had 
alarmed  my  clerk  by  fainting  at  my  desk.  I  have  no  wish  to  in- 
trude myself  needlessly  on  the  reader's  attention ;  but  it  may  be 
necessary  to  add,  in  the  way  of  explanation,  that  I  am  a  "junior" 
barrister  in  good  practice.  I  come  from  the  Channel  Island  of  Jer- 
sey. The  French  spelling  of  my  name  (Lefranc)  was  Anglicized 
generations  since — in  the  days  when  the  letter  "  k  "  was  still  used 
in  England  at  the  end  of  words  which  now  terminate  in  "  c."  We 
hold  our  heads  high,  nevertheless,  as  a  Jersey  family.  It  is  to  this 
day  a  trial  to  my  father  to  hear  his  son  described  as  a  member  of 
the  English  bar. 

"  Rest !"  I  repeated,  when  my  medical  adviser  had  done.  "  My 
good  friend,  are  you  aware  that  it  is  term-time?  The  courts  are 
sitting.  Look  at  the  briefs  waiting  for  me  on  that  table !  Rest 
means  ruin  in  my  case." 

"And  work,"  added  the  doctor,  quietly,  "means  death." 

I  started.  He  was  not  trying  to  frighten  me :  he  was  plainly  in 
earnest. 

"  It  is  merely  a  question  of  time,"  he  went  on.  "  You  have  a  fine 
constitution ;  you  are  a  young  man ;  but  you  can  not  deliberately 
overwork  your  brain,  and  derange  your  nervous  system,  much  long- 
er. Go  away  at  once.  If  you  are  a  good  sailor,  take  a  sea-voyage. 
The  ocean  air  is  the  best  of  all  air  to  build  you  up  again.  No :  I 
don't  want  to  write  a  prescription.  I  decline  to  physic  you.  I  have 
no  more  to  say." 

With  these  words  my  medical  friend  left  the  room.  I  was  obsti- 
nate :  I  went  into  court  the  same  day. 

The  senior  counsel  in  the  case  on  which  I  was  engaged  applied 


872  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

to  me  for  some  information  which  it  was  my  duty  to  give  him.  To 
my  horror  and  amazement,  I  was  perfectly  unable  to  collect  my 
ideas ;  facts  and  dates  all  mingled  together  confusedly  in  my  mind. 
I  was  led  out  of  court  thoroughly  testified  about  myself.  The  next 
day  my  briefs  went  back  to  the  attorneys;  and  I  followed  my  doc- 
tor's advice  by  taking  my  passage  for  America  in  the  first  steamer 
that  sailed  for  New  York. 

I  had  chosen  the  voyage  to  America*  in  preference  to  any  other 
trip  by  sea,  with  a  special  object  in  view.  A  relative  of  my  mother's 
had  emigrated  to  the  United  States  many  years  since,  and  had  thriv- 
en there  as  a  farmer.  He  had  given  me  a  general  invitation  to  visit 
him  if  I  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic.  The  long  period  of  inaction,  un- 
der the  name  of  rest,  to  which  the  doctor's  decision  had  condemned 
me,  could  hardly  be  more  pleasantly  occupied,  as  I  thought,  than  by 
paying  a  visit  to  my  relation,  and  seeing  what  I  could  of  America  in 
that  way.  After  a  brief  sojourn  at  New  York,  I  started  by  railway 
for  the  residence  of  my  host — Mr.  Isaac  Meadowcroft,  of  Morwick 
Farm. 

There  are  some  of  the  grandest  natural  prospects  on  the  face  of 
creation  in  America.  There  is  also  to  be  found  in  certain  States  of 
the  Union,  by  way  of  wholesome  contrast,  scenery  as  flat,  as  monot- 
onous, and  as  uninteresting  to  the  traveler,  as  any  that  the  earth  can 
show.  The  pail  of  the  country  in  which  Mr.  Meadowcroft's  farm 
was  situated  fell  within  this  latter  category.  I  looked  round  me 
when  I  stepped  out  of  the  railway-carriage  on  the  platform  at  Mor- 
wick Station ;  and  I  said  to  myself,  "  If  to  be  cured  means,  in  my 
case,  to  be  dull,  I  have  accurately  picked  out  the  very  place  for  the 
purpose." 

I  look  back  at  those  words  by  the  light  of  later  events;  and  I 
pronounce  them,  as  you  will  soon  pronounce  them,  to  be  the  words 
of  an  essentially  rash  man,  whose  hasty  judgment  never  stopped  to 
consider  what  surprises  time  and  chance  together  might  have  in 
store  for  him. 

Mr.  Meadowcroft's  eldest  son,  Ambrose,  was  waiting  at  the  station 
to  drive  me  to  the  farm. 

There  was  no  forewarning,  in  the  appearance  of  Ambrose  Meadow- 
croft,  of  the  strange  and  terrible  events  that  were  to  follow  my  ar- 
rival at  Morwick.  A  healthy,  handsome  young  fellow,  one  of  thou- 
sands of  other  healthy,  handsome  young  fellows,  said,  "  How  d'ye  do, 
Mr.  Lefrank  ?  Glad  to  see  you,  sir.  Jump  into  the  buggy ;  the  man 
will  look  after  your  portmanteau."  With  equally  conventional  po- 
liteness I  answered,  "  Thank  you.  How  are  you  all  at  home  ?"  So 
we  started  on  the  way  to  the  farm. 

Our  conversation  on  the  drive  began  with  the  subjects  of  agri- 
culture and  breeding.  I  displayed  my  total  ignorance  of  crops  and 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  3Y3 

cattle  l>efore  we  had  traveled  ten  yards  on  our  journey.  Ambrose 
Mcadowcroft  cast  about  for  another  topic,  and  failed  to  find  it. 
Upon  this  I  ca>t  about  on  my  side,  and  asked,  at  a  venture,  if  I  had 
chosen  a  convenient  time  for  my  visit.  The  young  farmer's  stolid 
brown  face  instantly  brightened.  I  had  evidently  hit,  hap-hazard, 
on  an  interesting  subject. 

"  You  couldn't  have  chosen  a  better  time,"  he  said.  "  Our  house 
has  never  been  so  cheerful  as  it  is  now." 

"  Have  you  any  visitors  staying  with  you  ?" 

"  It's  not  exactly  a  visitor.  It's  a  new  member  of  the  family  who 
has  come  to  live  with  us." 

"  A  new  member  of  the  family !     May  I  ask  who  it  is  ?" 

Ambrose  Meadowcroft  considered  before  he  replied ;  touched  his 
horse  with  the  whip;  looked  at  me  with  a  certain  sheepish  hesita- 
tion ;  and  suddenly  burst  out  with  the  truth,  in  the  plainest  possi- 
ble words : 

"It's  just  the  nicest  girl,  sir,  you  ever  saw  in  your  life." 

"Ay,  ay  !     A  friend  of  your  sister's,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  A  friend  ?  Bless  your  heart !  it's  our  little  American  cousin, 
Naomi  Colebrook." 

I  vaguely  remembered  that  a  younger  sister  of  Mr.  Meadowcroft's 
had  married  an  American  merchant  in  the  remote  past,  and  had 
died  many  years  since,  leaving  an  only  child.  I  was  now  further 
informed  that  the  father  also  was  dead.  In  his  last  moments  he  had 
committed  his  helpless  daughter  to  the  compassionate  care  of  his 
wife's  relations  at  Morwick. 

"  He  was  always  a  speculating  man,"  Ambrose  went  on.  "  Tried 
one  thing  after  another,  and  failed  in  all.  Died,  sir,  leaving  barely 
enough  to  bury  him.  My  father  was  a  little  doubtful,  before  she 
came  here,  how  his  American  niece  would  turn  out.  We  are  English, 
you  know  ;  and.  though  we  do  live  in  the  United  States,  we  stick  fast 
to  our  English  ways  and  habits.  We  don't  much  like  American 
women  in  general,  I  can  tell  you ;  but  when  Naomi  made  her  appear- 
ance she  conquered  us  all.  Such  a  girl !  Took  her  place  as  one  of 
the  family  directly.  Learned  to  make  herself  useful  in  the  dairy  in  a 
weeks  time.  I  tell  you  this — she  hasn't  been  with  us  quite  two 
months  yet.  and  we  wonder  already  how  we  ever  got  on  without  her !" 

Once  started  on  the  subject  of  Naomi  Colebrook,  Ambrose  held 
to  that  one  topic,  and  talked  on  it  without  intermission.  It  required 
no  irreat  gift  of  penetration  to  discover  the  impression  which  the 
American  cousin  had  produced  in  this  case.  The  young  fellow's 
enthusiasm  communicated  itself,  in  a  certain  tepid  degree,  to  me. 
I  really  felt  a  mild  flutter  of  anticipation  at  the  prospect  of  seeing 
Naomi,  when  we  drew  up,  toward  the  close  of  evening,  at  the  gates 
of  Morwick  Farm. 

16 


THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 


CHAPTER  H. 

THE    NEW    FACES. 

IMMEDIATELY  on  my  arrival,  I  was  presented  to  Mr.  Meadowcroft, 
the  father. 

The  old  man  had  become  a  confirmed  invalid,  confined  by  chronic 
rheumatism  to  his  chair.  He  received  me  kindly,  and  a  little  weari- 
ly as  well.  His  only  unmarried  daughter  (he  had  long  since  been 
left  a  widower)  was  in  the  room,  in  attendance  on  her  father.  She 
was  a  melancholy,  middle-aged  woman,  without  visible  attractions 
of  any  sort — one  of  those  persons  who  appear  to  accept  the  obliga- 
tion of  living  under  protest,  as  a  burden  which  they  would  never 
have  consented  to  bear  if  they  had  only  been  consulted  first.  We 
three  had  a  dreary  little  interview  in  a  parlor  of  bare  walls ;  and 
then  I  was  permitted  to  go  up  stairs,  and  unpack  my  portmanteau 
in  my  own  room. 

"  Supper  will  be  at  nine  o'clock,  sir,"  said  Miss  Meadowcroft. 

She  pronounced  those  words  as  if  "  supper  "  was  a  form  of  domes- 
tic offense,  habitually  committed  by  the  men,  and  endured  by  the 
women.  I  followed  the  groom  up  to  my  room,  not  overwell  pleased 
with  my  first  experience  of  the  farm. 

No  Naomi,  and  no  romance,  thus  far ! 

My  room  was  clean — oppressively  clean.  I  quite  longed  to  see  a 
little  dust  somewhere.  My  library  was  limited  to  the  Bible  and  the 
Prayer-book.  My  view  from  the  window  showed  me  a  dead  flat  in 
a  partial  state  of  cultivation,  fading  sadly  from  view  in  the  waning 
light.  Above  the  head  of  my  spruce  white  bed  hung  a  scroll,  bear- 
ing a  damnatory  quotation  from  Scripture  in  emblazoned  letters  of 
red  and  black.  The  dismal  presence  of  Miss  Meadowcroft  had  pass- 
ed over  my  bedroom,  and  had  blighted  it.  My  spirits  sank  as  I 
looked  round  me.  Supper-time  was  still  an  event  in  the  future.  I 
lit  the  candles,  and  took  from  my  portmanteau  what  I  firmly  believe 
to  have  been  the  first  French  novel  ever  produced  at  Morwick  Farm. 
It  was  one  of  the  masterly  and  charming  stories  of  Dumas  the  elder. 
In  five  minutes  I  was  in  a  new  world,  and  my  melancholy  room  was 
full  of  the  liveliest  French  company.  The  sound  of  an  imperative 
and  uncompromising  bell  recalled  me  in  due  time  to  the  regions  of 
reality.  I  looked  at  my  watch.  Nine  o'clock. 

Ambrose  met  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  showed  me  the 
way  to  the  supper-room. 

Mr.  Meadowcroft's  invalid-chair  had  been  wheeled  to  the  head  of 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  375 

the  table.  On  his  right-hand  side  sat  his  sad  and  silent  daughter. 
She  signed  to  me,  with  a  ghostly  solemnity,  to  take  the  vacant  place 
on  the  left  of  her  father.  Silas  Meadowcroft  came  in  at  the  same 
moment,  and  was  presented  to  me  by  his  brother.  There  was  a 
strong  family  likeness  between  them,  Ambrose  being  the  taller  and 
the  handsomer  man  of  the  two.  But  there  was  no  marked  character 
in  either  face.  I  set  them  down  as  men  with  undeveloped  qualities, 
waiting  (the  good  and  evil  qualities  alike)  for  time  and  circum- 
stances to  bring  them  to  their  full  growth. 

The  door  opened  again  while  I  was  still  studying  the  two  broth- 
ers, without,  I  honestly  confess,  being  very  favorably  impressed  by 
either  of  them.  A  new  member  of  the  family  circle,  who  instantly 
attracted  my  attention,  entered  the  room. 

He  was  short,  spare,  and  wiry  ;  singularly  pale  for  a  person  whose 
life  was  passed  in  the  country.  The  face  was  in  other  respects,  be- 
sides this,  a  striking  face  to  see.  As  to  the  lower  part,  it  was  cover- 
ed with  a  thick  black  beard  and  mustache,  at  a  time  when  shaving 
was  the  rule,  and  beards  the  rare  exception,  in  America.  As  to  the 
upper  part  of  the  face,  it  was  irradiated  by  a  pair  of  wild,  glittering 
brown  eyes,  the  expression  of  which  suggested  to  me  that  there  was 
something  not  quite  right  with  the  man's  mental  balance.  A  per- 
fectly sane  person  in  all  his  sayings  and  doings,  so  far  as  I  could  see, 
there  was  still  something  in  those  wild  brown  eyes  which  suggested 
to  me  that,  under  exceptionally  trying  circumstances,  he  might  sur- 
prise his  oldest  friends  by  acting  in  some  exceptionally  violent  or 
foolish  way.  "  A  little  cracked  " — that  in  the  popular  phrase  was 
my  impression  of  the  stranger  who  now  made  his  appearance  in  the 
supper-room. 

Mr.  Meadowcroft  the  elder,  having  not  spoken  one  word  thus  far, 
himself  introduced  the  new-comer  to  me,  with  a  side-glance  at  his 
sons,  which  had  something  like  defiance  in  it — a  glance  which,  as  I 
was  sorry  to  notice,  was  returned  with  the  defiance  on  their  side  by 
the  two  young  men. 

"  Philip  Lefrank,  this  is  my  overlooker,  Mr.  Jago,"  said  the  old 
man,  formally  presenting  us.  "  John  Jago,  this  is  my  young  relative 
by  marriage,  Mr.  Lefrank.  He  is  not  well :  he  has  come  over  the 
ocean  for  rest,  and  change  of  scene.  Mr.  Jago  is  an  American,  Phil- 
ip. I  hope  you  have  no  prejudice  against  Americans.  Make  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  Jago.  Sit  together."  He  cast  another  dark 
look  at  his  sons;  and  the  sons  again  returned  it.  They  pointedly 
drew  back  from  John  Jago  as  he  approached  the  empty  chair  next 
to  me,  and  moved  round  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  It  was 
plain  that  the  man  with  the  beard  stood  high  in  the  father's  favor, 
and  that  he  was  cordially  disliked  for  that  or  for  some  other  reason 
by  the  sons. 


376  THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 

The  door  opened  once  more.  A  young  lady  quietly  joined  the 
party  at  the  supper-table. 

Was  the  young  lady  Naomi  Colebrook  ?  I  looked  at  Ambrose, 
and  saw  the  answer  in  his  face.  Naomi  Colebrook  at  last ! 

A  pretty  girl,  and,  so  far  as  I  could  judge  by  appearances,  a  good 
girl  too.  Describing  her  generally,  I  may  say  that  she  had  a  small 
head,  well  carried,  and  well  set  on  her  shoulders ;  bright  gray  eyes, 
that  looked  at  you  honestly,  and  meant  what  they  looked ;  a  trim, 
slight  little  figure — too  slight  for  our  English  notions  of  beauty ;  a 
strong  American  accent ;  and  (a  rare  thing  in  America)  a  pleasantly 
toned  voice,  which  made  the  accent  agreeable  to  English  ears.  Our 
first  impressions  of  people  are,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the  right  im- 
pressions. I  liked  Naomi  Colebrook  at  first  sight ;  liked  her  pleas- 
ant smile ;  liked  her  hearty  shake  of  the  hand  when  we  were  pre- 
sented to  each  other.  "  If  I  get  on  well  with  nobody  else  in  this 
house,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  shall  certainly  get  on  well  with 
you." 

For  once  in  a  way,  I  proved  a  true  prophet.  In  the  atmosphere 
of  smouldering  enmities  at  Morwick  Farm,  the  pretty  American 
girl  and  I  remained  firm  and  true  friends  from  first  to  last. 

Ambrose  made  room  for  Naomi  to  sit  between  his  brother  and 
himself.  She  changed  color  for  a  moment,  and  looked  at  him,  with 
a  pretty,  reluctant  tenderness,  as  she  took  her  chair.  I  strongly  sus- 
pected the  young  farmer  of  squeezing  her  hand  privately,  under 
cover  of  the  table-cloth. 

The  supper  was  not  a  merry  one.  The  only  cheerful  conversation 
was  the  conversation  across  the  table  between  Naomi  and  me. 

For  some  incomprehensible  reason,  John  Jago  seemed  to  be  ill  at 
ease  in  the  presence  of  his  young  country-woman.  He  looked  up  at 
Naomi  doubtingly  from  his  plate,  and  looked  down  again  slowly 
with  a  frown.  When  I  addressed  him,  he  answered  constrainedly. 
Even  when  he  spoke  to  Mr.  Meadowcroft,  he  was  still  on  his  guard 
— on  his  guard  against  the  two  young  men,  as  I  fancied  by  the  di- 
rection which  his  eyes  took  on  these  occasions.  When  we  began 
our  meal,  I  had  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  Silas  Meaclowcroft's 
left  hand  was  strapped  up  with  surgical  plaster ;  and  I  now  further 
observed  that  John  Jago's  wandering  brown  eyes,  furtively  looking 
at  every  body  round  the  table  in  turn,  looked  with  a  curious,  cynical 
scrutiny  at  the  young  man's  injured  hand. 

By  way  of  making  my  first  evening  at  the  farm  all  the  more  em- 
barrassing to  me  as  a  stranger,  I  discovered  before  long  that  the 
father  and  sons  were  talking  indirectly  at  each  other,  through  Mr. 
Jago  and  through  me.  When  old  Mr.  Meadowcroft  spoke  dispar- 
agingly to  his  overlooker  of  some  past  mistake  made  in  the  culti- 
vation of  the  arable  land  of  the  farm,  old  Mr.  Meadowcroft's  eyea 


THE    DEAD   ALIVE.  377 

pointed  the  application  of  his  hostile  criticism  straight  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  two  sons.  When  the  two  sons  seized  a  stray  remark  of 
mine  about  animals  in  general,  and  applied  it  satirically  to  the  mis- 
management of  sheep  and  oxen  in  particular,  they  looked  at  John 
Jago,  while  they  talked  to  me.  On  occasions  of  this  sort — and  they 
happened  frequently — Naomi  struck  in  resolutely  at  the  right  mo- 
ment, and  turned  the  talk  to  some  harmless  topic.  Every  time  she 
took  a  prominent  part  in  this  way  in  keeping  the  peace,  melancholy 
Miss  Meadowcroft  looked  slowly  round  at  her  in  stern  and  silent 
disparagement  of  her  interference.  A  more  dreary  and  more  dis- 
united family  party  I  never  sat  at  the  table  with.  Envy,  hatred, 
malice,  and  uncharitableness  are  never  so  essentially  detestable  to 
my  mind  as  when  they  are  animated  by  a  sense  of  propriety,  and 
work  under  the  surface.  But  for  my  interest  in  Naomi,  and  my 
other  interest  in  the  little  love-looks  which  I  now  and  then  sur- 
prised passing  between  her  and  Ambrose,  I  should  never  have  set 
through  that  supper.  I  should  certainly  have  taken  refuge  in  my 
French  novel  and  my  own  room. 

At  last  the  unendurably  long  meal,  served  with  ostentatious  pro- 
fusion, was  at  an  end.  Miss  Meadowcroft  rose  with  her  ghostly 
solemnity;  and  granted  me  my  dismissal  in  these  words: 

"  We  are  early  people  at  the  farm,  Mr.  Lefrank.  I  wish  you  good- 
night." 

She  laid  her  bony  hands  on  the  back  of  Mr.  Meadowcroft's  inva- 
lid-chair, cut  him  short  in  his  farewell  salutation  to  me,  and  wheeled 
him  out  to  his  bed  as  if  she  were  wheeling  him  out  to  his  grave. 

"  Do  you  go  to  your  room  immediately,  sir  ?  If  not,  may  I  offer 
you  a  cigar — provided  the  young  gentlemen  will  permit  it  ?" 

So,  picking  his  words  with  painful  deliberation,  and  pointing  his 
reference  to  "  the  young  gentlemen  "  with  one  sardonic  side-look  at 
them,  Mr.  John  Jago  performed  the  duties  of  hospitality  on  his  side. 
I  excused  myself  from  accepting  the  cigar.  With  studied  polite- 
ness, the  man  of  the  glittering  brown  eyes  wished  me  a  good-night's 
rest,  and  left  the  room. 

Ambrose  and  Silas  both  approached  me  hospitably,  with  their 
open  cigar-cases  in  their  hands. 

"  You  were  quite  right  to  say  '  No,'  "  Ambrose  began.  "  Never 
smoke  with  John  Jago.  His  cigars  will  poison  you." 

"And  never  believe  a  word  John  Jago  says  to  you,"  added  Silas. 
"  He  is  the  greatest  liar  in  America,  let  the  other  be  whom  he  may." 

Naomi  shook  her  forefinger  reproachfully  at  them,  a*  if  the  two 
sturdy  young  farmers  had  been  two  children. 

"  What  will  Mr.  Lefrank  think,"  she  said,  "  if  you  talk  in  that  way 
of  a  person  whom  your  father  respects  and  trusts  ?  Go  and  smoke. 
I  am  ashamed  of  both  of  you." 


378  THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 

Silas  slunk  away  without  a  word  of  protest.  Ambrose  stood  his 
ground,  evidently  bent  on  making  his  peace  with  Naomi  before  he 
left  her. 

Seeing  that  I  was  in  the  way,  I  walked  aside  toward  a  glass  door 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  room.  The  door  opened  on  the  trim  little 
farm-garden,  bathed  at  that  moment  in  lovely  moonlight.  I  step- 
ped out  to  enjoy  the  scene,  and  found  my  way  to  a  seat  under  an 
elm-tree.  The  grand  repose  of  nature  had  never  looked  so  unut- 
terably solemn  and  beautiful  as  it  now  appeared,  after  what  I  had 
seen  and  heard  inside  the  house.  I  understood,  or  thought  I  under- 
stood, the  sad  despair  of  humanity  which  led  men  into  monasteries 
in  the  old  times.  The  misanthropical  side  of  my  nature  (where  is 
the  sick  man  who  is  not  conscious  of  that  side  of  him  ?)  was  fast 
getting  the  upper  hand  of  me  when  I  felt  a  light  touch  laid  on  my 
shoulder,  and  found  myself  reconciled  to  my  species  once  more  by 
Naomi  Colebrook. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   MOONLIGHT  MEETING. 

"  I  WANT  to  speak  to  you,"  Naomi  began.  "  You  don't  think  ill 
of  me  for  following  you  out  here  ?  We  are  not  accustomed  to  stand 
much  on  ceremony  in  America." 

"  You  are  quite  right  in  America.     Pray  sit  down." 

She  seated  herself  by  my  side,  looking  at  me  frankly  and  fearless- 
ly by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

"  You  are  related  to  the  family  here,"  she  resumed,  "  and  I  am 
related  too.  I  guess  I  may  say  to  you  what  I  couldn't  say  to  a 
stranger.  I  am  right  glad  you  have  come  here,  Mr.  Lefrank;  and 
for  a  reason,  sir,  which  you  don't  suspect." 

"Thank  you  for  the  compliment  you  pay  me,  Miss  Colebrook, 
whatever  the  reason  may  be." 

She  took  no  notice  of  my  reply;  she  steadily  pursued  her  own 
train  of  thought. 

"I  guess  you  may  do  some  good,  sir,  in  this  wretched  house,"  the 
girl  went  on,  with  her  eyes  still  earnestly  fixed  on  my  face.  "  There 
is  no  love,  no  trust,  no  peace,  at  Morwick  Farm.  They  want  some- 
body here,  except  Ambrose.  Don't  think  ill  of  Ambrose ;  he  is  only 
thoughtles?.  I  say,  the  rest  of  them  want  somebody  here  to  make 
them  ashamed  of  their  hard  hearts,  and  their  horrid,  false,  envious 
ways.  You  are  a  gentleman ;  you  know  more  than  they  know ; 
they  can't  help  themselves;  they  must  look  up  to  you.  Try.  Mr. 
Lefrank,  when  you  have  the  opportunity — pray  try.  sir,  to  make 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  379 

among  them.  You  heard  what  went  on  at  supper-time;  and 
you  were  disgusted  with  it.  Oh  yes,  you  were !  I  saw  you  frown 
to  yourself;  and  I  know  what  that  means  in  you  Englishmen." 

There  was  no  choice  but  to  speak  one's  mind  plainly  to  Naomi. 
I  acknowledged  the  impression  which  had  been  produced  on  me  at 
Mi]>piT-time  just  as  plainly  as  I  have  acknowledged  it  in  these  pages. 
Naomi  nodded  her  head  in  undisguised  approval  of  my  candor. 

"  That  will  do ;  that's  speaking  out,"  she  said.  "  But — oh  my  ! 
you  put  it  a  deal  too  mildly,  sir,  when  you  say  the  men  don't  seem 
to  be  on  friendly  terms  together  here.  They  hate  each  other. 
That's  the  word,  Mr.  Lefrank  — hate;  bitter,  bitter,  bitter  hate!" 
She  clenched  her  little  fists ;  she  shook  them  vehemently,  by  way  of 
adding  emphasis  to  her  last  words ;  and  then  she  suddenly  remem- 
bered Ambrose.  "  Except  Ambrose,"  she  added,  opening  her  hand 
again,  and  laying  it  very  earnestly  on  my  arm.  "Don't  go  and  mis- 
judge Ambrose,  sir.  There  is  no  harm  in  poor  Ambrose." 

The  girl's  innocent  frankness  was  really  irresistible. 

-  Should  I  be  altogether  wrong,"  I  asked,  "if  I  guessed  that  you 
were  a  little  partial  to  Ambrose  ?" 

An  Englishwoman  would  have  felt,  or  would  at  least  have  as- 
sumed, some  little  hesitation  at  replying  to  my  question.  Naomi 
did  not  hesitate  for  an  instant. 

"You  are  quite  right,  sir,"  she  said  with  the  most  perfect  com- 
posure. "  If  things  go  well,  I  mean  to  marry  Ambrose." 

"  If  things  go  well,"  I  repeated.  "  What  does  that  mean  ?  Mon- 
ey?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  It  means  a  fear  that  I  have  in  my  own  mind,"  she  answered—"  a 
fear,  Mr.  Lefrank,  of  matters  taking  a  bad  turn  among  the  men  here 

the  wicked,  hard-hearted,  unfeeling  men.  I  don't  mean  Ambrose, 
sir ;  I  mean  his  brother  Silas,  and  John  Jago.  Did  you  notice  Si- 
las's hand  ?  John  Jago  did  that,  sir,  with  a  knife." 

"  By  accident  ?"  I  asked. 

"  On  purpose,"  she  answered.     "  In  return  for  a  blow." 

This  plain  revelation  of  the  state  of  things  at  Morwick  Farm  rath- 
er staggered  me — blows  and  knives  under  the  rich  and  respectable 
roof-tree  of  old  Mr.  Meadowcroft — blows  and  knives,  not  among  the 
laborers,  but  among  the  masters  !  My  first  impression  was  like  your 
first  impression,  no  doubt.  I  could  hardly  believe  it. 

"Are  you  sure  of  what  you  say  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  have  it  from  Ambrose.  Ambrose  would  never  deceive  me. 
Ambrose  knows  all  about  it." 

My  curiosity  was  powerfully  excited.  To  what  sort  of  household 
had  I  rashly  voyaged  across  the  ocean  in  search  of  rest  and  quiet  ? 

"  May  I  know  all  about  it  too  ?"  I  said. 


380  THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 

"  "Well,  I  will  try  and  tell  you  what  Ambrose  told  me.  But  you 
must  promise  me  one  thing  first,  sir.  Promise  you  won't  go  away 
and  leave  us  when  you  know  the  whole  truth.  Shake  hands  on  it, 
Mr.  Lefrank ;  come,  shake  hands  on  it." 

There  was  no  resisting  her  fearless  frankness.  I  shook  hands  on 
it.  Naomi  entered  on  her  narrative  the  moment  I  had  given  her  my 
pledge,  without  wasting  a  word  by  way  of  preface. 

"  When  you  are  shown  over  the  farm  here,"  she  began,  "  you  will 
see  that  it  is  really  two  farms  in  one.  On  this  side  of  it,  as  we  look 
from  under  this  tree,  they  raise  crops :  on  the  other  side — on  much 
the  larger  half  of  the  land,  mind  —  they  raise  cattle.  When  Mr. 
Meadowcroft  got  too  old  and  too  sick  to  look  after  his  farm  him- 
self, the  boys  (I  mean  Ambrose  and  Silas)  divided  the  work  between 
them.  Ambrose  looked  after  the  crops,  and  Silas  after  the  cattle. 
Things  didn't  go  well,  somehow,  under  their  management.  I  can't 
tell  you  why.  I  am  only  sure  Ambrose  was  not  in  fault.  The  old 
man  got  more  and  more  dissatisfied,  especially  about  his  beasts. 
His  pride  is  in  his  beasts.  Without  saying  a  word  to  the  boys,  he 
looked  about  privately  (/  think  he  was  wrong  in  that,  sir ;  don't 
you  ?) — he  looked  about  privately  for  help ;  and,  in  an  evil  hour,  he 
heard  of  John  Jago.  Do  you  like  John  Jago,  Mr.  Lefrank  ?" 

"  So  far,  no.     I  don't  like  him." 

"  Just  my  sentiments,  sir.  But  I  don't  know :  it's  likely  we  may 
be  wrong.  There's  nothing  against  John  Jago,  except  that  he  is  so 
odd  in  his  ways.  They  do  say  he  wears  all  that  nasty  hair  on  his 
face  (I  hate  hair  on  a  man's  face)  on  account  of  a  vow  he  made 
when  he  lost  his  wife.  Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Lefrank,  a  man  must 
be  a  little  mad  who  shows  his  grief  at  losing  his  wife  by  vowing 
that  he  will  never  shave  himself  again  ?  Well,  that's  what  they  do 
say  John  Jago  vowed.  Perhaps  it's  a  lie.  People  are  such  liars 
here !  Anyway,  it's  truth  (the  boys  themselves  confess  that),  when 
John  came  to  the  farm,  he  came  with  a  first-rate  character.  The 
old  father  here  isn't  easy  to  please ;  and  he  pleased  the  old  father. 
Yes,  that's  so.  Mr.  Meadowcroft  don't  like  my  countrymen  in  gen- 
eral. He's  like  his  sons — English,  bitter  English,  to  the  marrow  of 
his  bones.  Somehow,  in  spite  of  that,  John  Jago  got  round  him ; 
maybe  because  John  does  certainly  know  his  business.  Oh  yes ! 
Cattle  and  crops,  John  knows  his  business.  Since  he's  been  over- 
looker, things  have  prospered  as  they  didn't  prosper  in  the  time  of 
the  boys.  Ambrose  owned  as  much  to  me  himself.  Still,  sir,  it's 
hard  to  be  set  aside  for  a  stranger ;  isn't  it  ?  John  gives  the  orders 
now.  The  boys  do  their  work  ;  but  they  have  no  voice  in  it  when 
John  and  the  old  man  put  their  heads  together  over  the  business  of 
the  farm.  I  have  been  long  in  telling  you  of  it,  sir ;  but  now  you 
know  how  the  envy  and  the  hatred  grew  among  the  men  before  my 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  381 

time.  Since  I  have  been  here,  things  seem  to  get  worse  and  worse. 
There's  hardly  a  day  goes  by  that  hard  words  don't  pass  between 
the  boys  and  John,  or  the  boys  and  their  father.  The  old  man  has 
an  aggravating  way,  Mr.  Lefrank — a  nasty  way,  as  we  do  call  it — of 
taking  John  Jago's  part.  Do  speak  to  him  about  it  when  you  get 
the  chance.  The  main  blame  of  the  quarrel  between  Silas  and  John 
the  other  day  lies  at  his  door,  as  I  think.  I  don't  want  to  excuse 
Silas,  either.  It  was  brutal  of  him — though  he  is  Ambrose's  brother 
— to  strike  John,  who  is  the  smaller  and  weaker  man  of  the  two. 
But  it  was  worse  than  brutal  in  John,  sir,  to  out  with  his  knife  and 
try  to  stab  Silas.  Oh,  he  did  it !  If  Silas  had  not  caught  the  knife 
in  his  hand  (his  hand's  awfully  cut,  I  can  tell  you ;  I  dressed  it  my- 
self), it  might  have  ended,  for  any  thing  I  know,  in  murder — " 

She  stopped  as  the  word  passed  her  lips,  looked  back  over  her 
shoulder,  and  started  violently. 

I  looked  where  my  companion  was  looking.  The  dark  figure  of 
a  man  was  standing,  watching  us,  in  the  shadow  of  the  elm-tree.  I 
rose  directly  to  approach  him.  Naomi  recovered  her  self-possession, 
and  checked  me  before  I  could  interfere. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  turning  sharply  toward  the  stranger. 
"  What  do  you  want  there  ?" 

The  man  stepped  out  from  the  shadow  into  the  moonlight,  and 
stood  revealed  to  us  as  John  Jago. 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  intruding  ?"  he  said,  looking  hard  at  me. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  Naomi  repeated. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  disturb  you,  or  to  disturb  this  gentleman,"  he 
proceeded.  "  When  you  are  quite  at  leisure,  Miss  Naomi,  you  would 
be  doing  me  a  favor  if  you  would  permit  me  to  say  a  few  words  to 
you  in  private." 

He  spoke  with  the  most  scrupulous  politeness ;  trying,  and  trying 
vainly,  to  conceal  some  strong  agitation  which  was  in  possession  of 
him.  His  wild  brown  eyes — wilder  than  ever  in  the  moonlight — 
rested  entreatingly,  with  a  strange  underlying  expression  of  despair, 
on  Naomi's  face.  His  hands,  clasped  lightly  in  front  of  him,  trem- 
bled incessantly.  Little  as  I  liked  the  man,  he  did  really  impress 
me  as  a  pitiable  object  at  that  moment. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  speak  to  me  to-night?"  Naomi 
asked  in  undisguised  surprise. 

"  Yes,  miss,  if  you  please,  at  your  leisure  and  at  Mr.  Lefrank's," 

Naomi  hesitated. 

"Won't  it  keep  till  to-morrow  ?'*  she  said. 

"  I  shall  be  away  on  farm  business  to-morrow,  miss,  for  the  whole 
day.  Please  to  give  me  a  few  minutes  this  evening."  He  advanced 
a  step  toward  her;  his  voice  faltered,  and  dropped  timidly  to  a 
whisper.  "  I  really  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Miss  Naomi.  It 

16* 


382  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

would  be  a  kindness  on  your  part — a  very,  very  great  kindness — if 
you  will  let  me  say  it  before  I  rest  to-night." 

I  rose  again  to  resign  my  place  to  him.  Once  more  Naomi  check- 
ed me. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  Don't  stir."  She  addressed  John  Jago  very 
reluctantly :  "  If  you  are  so  much  in  earnest  about  it,  Mr.  John,  I 
suppose  it  must  be.  I  can't  guess  what  you  can  possibly  have  to 
say  to  me  which  can  not  be  said  before  a  third  person.  However, 
it  wouldn't  be  civil,  I  suppose,  to  say  '  No '  in  my  place.  You  know 
it's  my  business  to  wind  up  the  hall-clock  at  ten  every  night.  If 
you  choose  to  come  and  help  me,  the  chances  are  that  we  shall 
have  the  hall  to  ourselves.  Will  that  do  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  hall,  miss,  if  you  will  excuse  me." 

"  Not  in  the  hall !" 

"And  not  in  the  house  either,  if  I  may  make  so  bold." 

"What  do  you  mean ?"  She  turned  impatiently, and  appealed  to 
me.  "  Do  you  understand  him  ?" 

John  Jago  signed  to  me  imploringly  to  let  him  answer  for  himself. 

"  Bear  with  me,  Miss  Naomi,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  can  make  you 
understand  me.  There  are  eyes  on  the  watch,  and  ears  on  the 
watch, in  the  house;  and  there  are  some  footsteps  —  I  won't  say 
whose — so  soft,  that  no  person  can  hear  them." 

The  last  allusion  evidently  made  itself  understood.  Naomi  stop- 
ped him  before  he  could  say  more. 

"Well,  where  is  it  to  be  ?"  she  asked,  resignedly.  "Will  the  gar- 
den do,  Mr.  John  ?" 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  miss ;  the  garden  will  do."  He  pointed  to 
a  gravel-walk  beyond  us,  bathed  in  the  full  flood  of  the  moonlight. 
"  There,"  he  said,  "  where  we  can  see  all  round  us,  and  be  sure  that 
nobody  is  listening.  At  ten  o'clock."  He  paused,  and  addressed 
himself  to  me.  "  I  beg  to  apologize,  sir,  for  intruding  myself  on 
your  conversation.  Please  to  excuse  me." 

His  eyes  rested  with  a  last  anxious,  pleading  look  on  Naomi's 
face.  He  bowed  to  us,  and  melted  away  into  the  shadow  of  the 
tree.  The  distant  sound  of  a  door  closed  softly  came  to  us  through 
the  stillness  of  the  night.  John  Jago  had  re-entered  the  house. 

Now  that  he  was  out  of  hearing,  Naomi  spoke  to  me  very  ear- 
nestly : 

"  Don't  suppose,  sir,  I  have  any  secrets  with  him"  she  said.  "  I 
know  no  more  than  you  do  what  he  wants  with  me.  I  have  half  a 
mind  not  to  keep  the  appointment  when  ten  o'clock  comes.  What 
would  you  do  in  my  place  ?" 

"  Having  made  the  appointment,"  I  answered,  "  it  seems  to  be  due 
to  yourself  to  keep  it.  If  you  feel  the  slightest  alarm,  I  will  wait  in 
another  part  of  the  garden,  so  that  I  can  hear  if  you  call  me." 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  383 

She  received  my  proposal  with  a  saucy  toss  of  the  head,  and  a 
smile  of  pity  for  my  ignorance. 

"  You  are  a  stranger,  Mr.  Lefrank,  or  you  would  never  talk  to  me 
in  that  way.  In  America,  we  don't  do  the  men  the  honor  of  letting 
them  alarm  us.  In  America,  the  women  take  care  of  themselves. 
He  has  got  my  promise  to  meet  him,  as  you  say ;  and  I  must  keep 
my  promise.  Only  think,"  she  added,  speaking  more  to  herself 
than  to  me,  "of  John  Jago  finding  out  Miss  Meadowcroft's  nasty, 
sly,  underhand  ways  in  the  house !  Most  men  would  never  have 
noticed  her." 

I  was  completely  taken  by  Surprise.  Sad  and  severe  Miss  Mead- 
owcroft  a  listener  and  a  spy !  What  next  at  Morwick  Farm  ? 

"  Was  that  hint  at  the  watchful  eyes  and  ears,  and  the  soft 
footsteps,  really  an  allusion  to  Mr.  Meadowcroft's  daughter  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  Of  course  it  was.  Ah  !  she  has  imposed  on  you  as  she  imposes 
on  every  body  else.  The  false  wretch !  She  is  secretly  at  the  bot- 
tom of  half  the  bad  feeling  among  the  men.  I  am  certain  of  it — she 
keeps  Mr.  Meadowcroft's  mind  bitter  toward  the  boys.  Old  as  she 
is,  Mr.  Lefrank,  and  ugly  as  she  is,  she  wouldn't  object  (if  she  could 
only  make  him  ask  her)  to  be  John  Jago's  second  wife.  No,  sir; 
and  she  wouldn't  break  her  heart  if  the  boys  were  not  left  a  stick 
or  a  stone  on  the  farm  when  the  father  dies.  I  have  watched  her, 
and  I  know  it.  Ah !  I  could  tell  you  such  things !  But  there's  no 
time  now — it's  close  on  ten  o'clock;  we  must  say  good-night.  I 
am  right  glad  I  have  spoken  to  you,  sir.  I  say  again,  at  parting, 
what  I  have  said  already :  Use  your  influence,  pray  use  your  influ- 
ence, to  soften  them,  and  to  make  them  ashamed  of  themselves,  in 
this  wicked  house.  We  will  have  more  talk  about  what  you  can 
do  to-morrow,  when  you  are  shown  over  the  farm.  Say  good-bye 
now.  Hark  !  there  is  ten  striking !  And  look  !  here  is  John  Jago 
stealing  out  again  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree !  Good-night,  friend 
Lefrank  ;  and  pleasant  dreams." 

With  one  hand  she  took  mine,  and  pressed  it  cordially ;  with  the 
other  she  pushed  me  away  without  ceremony  in  the  direetion  of  the 
house.  A  charming  girl — an  irresistible  girl !  I  was  nearly  as  bad 
as  the  boys.  I  declare,  /  almost  hated  John  Jago,  too,  as  we  crossed 
each  other  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree. 

Arrived  at  the  glass  door,  I  stopped,  and  looked  back  at  the  grav- 
el-walk. 

They  had  met.  I  saw  the  two  shadowy  figures  slowly  pacing 
backward  and  forward  in  the  moonlight,  the  woman  a  little  in 
advance  of  the  man.  What  was  he  saying  to  her?  Why  was  he 
so  anxious  that  not  a  word  of  it  should  lie  heard?  Our  presenti- 
ments are  sometimes,  in  certain  rare  cases,  the  faitLful  prophecy  ot 


384  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

the  future.     A  vague  distrust  of  that  moonlight  meeting  stealthily 
took  a  hold  on  my  mind.     "  Will  mischief  come  of  it?"  I  asked  my- 
self as  I  closed  the  door  and  entered  the  house. 
Mischief  did  come  of  it.     You  shall  hear  how. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    BEECHEN   STICK. 

PERSONS  of  sensitive,  nervous  temperament,  sleeping  for  the  first 
time  in  a  strange  house,  and  in  a  bed  that  is  new  to  them,  must 
make  up  their  minds  to  pass  a  wakeful  night.  My  first  night  at 
Morwick  Farm  was  no  exception  to  this  rule.  The  little  sleep  I 
had  was  broken  and  disturbed  by  dreams.  Toward  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  my  bed  became  unendurable  to  me.  The  sun  was 
shining  in  brightly  at  the  window.  I  determined  to  try  the  reviv- 
ing influence  of  a  stroll  in  the  fresh  morning  air. 

Just  as  I  got  out  of  bed,  I  heard  footsteps  and  voices  under  my 
window. 

The  footsteps  stopped,  and  the  voices  became  recognizable.  I 
had  passed  the  night  with  my  window  open;  I  was  able,  without 
exciting  notice  from  below,  to  look  out. 

The  persons  beneath  me  were  Silas  Meadowcroft,  John  Jago,  and 
three  strangers,  whose  dress  and  appearance  indicated  plainly  enough 
that  they  were  laborers  on  the  farm.  Silas  was  swinging  a  stout 
beechen  stick  in  his  hand,  and  was  speaking  to  Jago,  coarsely  and 
insolently  enough,  of  his  moonlight  meeting  with  Naomi  on  the 
previous  night. 

"  Next  time  you  go  courting  a  young  lady  in  secret,"  said  Silas, 
"  make  sure  that  the  moon  goes  down  first,  or  wait  for  a  cloudy  sky. 
You  were  seen  in  the  garden,  Master  Jago ;  and  you  may  as  well  tell 
us  the  truth  for  once  in  a  way.  Did  you  find  her  open  to  persuasion, 
sir  ?  Did  she  say  '  Yes  ?' " 

John  Jago  kept  his  temper. 

"If  you  must  have  your  joke,  Mr.  Silas,"  he  said,  quietly  and 
firmly,  "be  pleased  to  joke  on  some  other  subject.  You  are  quite 
wrong,  sir,  in  what  you  suppose  to  have  passed  between  the  young 
lady  and  me." 

Silas  turned  about,  and  addressed  himself  ironically  to  the  three 
laborers. 

"  You  hear  him,  boys  ?  He  can't  tell  the  truth,  try  him  as  you 
may.  He  wasn't  making  love  to  Naomi  in  the  garden  last  night — 
oh  dear,  no !  He  has  had  one  wife  already ;  and  he  knows  better 
than  to  take  the  yoke  on  his  shoulders  for  the  second  time  !" 


THE    DEAD    ALTVB.  385 

Greatly  to  my  surprise,  John  Jago  met  this  clumsy  jesting  with  a 
formal  and  serious  reply. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  have  no  intention  of  mar- 
rying for  the  second  time.  What  I  was  saying  to  Miss  Naomi 
doesn't  matter  to  you.  It  was  not  at  all  what  you  choose  to  sup- 
pose ;  it  was  something  of  quite  another  kind,  with  which  you  have 
no  concern.  Be  pleased  to  understand  once  for  all,  Mr.  Silas,  that 
not  so  much  as  the  thought  of  making  love  to  the  young  lady 
has  ever  entered  my  head.  I  respect  her ;  I  admire  her  good  qual- 
ities ;  but  if  she  was  the  only  woman  left  in  the  world,  and  if  I  was 
a  much  younger  man  than  I  am,  I  should  never  think  of  asking  her 
to  be  my  wife."  He  burst  out  suddenly  into  a  harsh,  uneasy  laugh. 
"  No,  no !  not  my  style,  Mr.  Silas — not  my  style  !" 

Something  in  those  words,  or  in  his  manner  of  speaking  them, 
appeared  to  exasperate  Silas.  He  dropped  his  clumsy  irony,  and  ad- 
dressed himself  directly  to  John  Jago  in  a  tone  of  savage  contempt. 

u  Not  your  style  ?"  he  repeated.  "  Upon  my  soul,  that's  a  cool 
way  of  putting  it,  for  a  man  in  your  place  !  What  do  you  mean  by 
calling  her  '  not  your  style  ?'  You  impudent  beggar !  Naomi  Cole- 
brook  is  meat  for  your  master !" 

John  Jago's  temper  began  to  give  way  at  last.  He  approached 
defiantly  a  step  or  two  nearer  to  Silas  Meadowcroft. 

"Who  is  my  master?"  he  asked. 

"  Ambrose  will  show  you,  if  you  go  to  him,"  answered  the  other. 
"Naomi  is  his  sweetheart,  not  mine.  Keep  out  of  his  way,  if  you 
want  to  keep  a  whole  skin  on  your  bones." 

John  Jago  cast  one  of  his  sardonic  side -looks  at  the  farmer's 
wounded  left  hand.  "  Don't  forget  your  own  skin,  Mr.  Silas,  when 
you  threaten  mine  !  I  have  set  my  mark  on  you  once,  sir.  Let  me 
by  on  my  business,  or  I  may  mark  you  for  a  second  time."  . 

Silas  lifted  his  beechen  stick.  The  laborers,  roused  to  some  rude 
sense  of  the  serious  turn  which  the  quarrel  was  taking,  got  between 
the  two  men,  and  parted  them.  I  had  been  hurriedly  dressing  my- 
self while  the  altercation  was  proceeding ;  and  I  now  ran  down 
stairs  to  try  what  my  influence  could  do  toward  keeping  the  peace 
at  Morwick  Farm. 

The  war  of  angry  words  was  still  going  on  when  I  joined  the  men 
outside. 

"  Be  off  with  you  on  your  business,  you  cowardly  hound !"  I  heard 
Silas  say.  t%  Be  off  with  you  to  the  town  !  and  take  care  you  don't 
meet  Ambrose  on  the  way !" 

"  Take  you  care  you  don't  feel  my  knife  again  before  I  go  1"  cried 
the  other  man. 

Silas  made  a  desperate  effort  to  break  away  from  the  laborers  who 
were  holding  him. 


386  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

"  Last  time  you  only  felt  my  fist !"  he  shouted.  "  Next  time  you 
shall  feel  this  T 

He  lifted  the  stick  as  he  spoke.  I  stepped  up  and  snatched  it 
out  of  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Silas,"  I  said,  "  I  am  an  invalid,  and  I  am  going  out  for  a 
walk.  Your  stick  will  be  useful  to  me.  I  beg  leave  to  borrow  it." 

The  laborers  burst  out  laughing.  Silas  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  with 
a  stare  of  angry  surprise.  John  Jago,  immediately  recovering  his 
self-possession,  took  off  his  hat,  and  made  me  a  deferential  bow. 

"  I  had  no  idea,  Mr.  Lefrank,  that  we  were  disturbing  you,"  he 
said.  "I  am  very  much  ashamed  of  myself,  sir.  I  beg  to  apol- 
ogize." 

"  I  accept  your  apology,  Mr.  Jago,"  I  answered,  "  on  the  under- 
standing that  you,  as  the  older  man,  will  set  the  example  of  forbear- 
ance, if  your  temper  is  tried  on  any  future  occasion  as  it  has  been 
tried  to-day.  And  I  have  further  to  request,"  I  added,  addressing 
myself  to  Silas,  "  that  you  will  do  me  a  favor,  as  your  father's  guest. 
The  next  time  your  good  spirits  lead  you  into  making  jokes  at  Mr. 
Jago's  expense,  don't  carry  them  quite  so  far.  I  am  sure  you  meant 
no  harm,  Mr.  Silas.  Will  you  gratify  me  by  saying  so  yourself?  I 
want  to  see  you  and  Mr.  Jago  shake  hands." 

John  Jago  instantly  held  out  his  hand,  with  an  assumption  of 
good  feeling  which  was  a  little  overacted,  to  my  thinking.  Silas 
Meadowcroft  made  no  advance  of  the  same  friendly  sort  on  his  side. 

"  Let  him  go  about  his  business,"  said  Silas.  "  I  won't  waste  any 
more  words  on  him,  Mr.  Lefrank,  to  please  you.  But  (saving  your 
presence)  I'm  d — d  if  I  take  his  hand  !" 

Further  persuasion  was  plainly  useless,  addressed  to  such  a  man 
as  this.  Silas  gave  me  no  further  opportunity  of  remonstrating  with 
him,  even  if  I  had  been  inclined  to  do  so.  He  turned  about  in  sulky 
silence,  and,  retracing  his  steps  along  the  path,  disappeared  round 
the  corner  of  the  house.  The  laborers  withdrew  next,  in  different 
directions,  to  begin  the  day's  work.  John  Jago  and  I  were  alone. 

I  left  it  to  the  man  of  the  wild  brown  eyes  to  speak  first. 

"  In  half  an  hour's  time,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  be  going  on  busi- 
ness to  Narrabee,  our  market-town  here.  Can  I  take  any  letters  to  the 
post  for  you  ?  or  is  there  any  thing  else  that  I  can  do  in  the  town  ?" 

I  thanked  him,  and  declined  both  proposals.  He  made  me  an- 
other deferential  bow,  and  withdrew  into  the  house.  I  mechanic- 
ally followed  the  path  in  the  direction  which  Silas  had  taken  be- 
fore me. 

Turning  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  walking  on  for  a  little  way, 
I  found  myself  at  the  entrance  to  the  stables,  and  face  to  face  with 
Silas  Meadowcroft  once  more.  He  had  his  elbows  on  the  gate  of 
the  yard,  swinging  it  slowly  backward  and  forward,  and  turning 


THE    DEAD   ALIVE.  387 

and  twisting  a  straw  between  his  teeth.  When  he  saw  me  ap- 
proaching him,  he  advanced  a  step  from  the  gate,  and  made  an  ef- 
fort to  excuse  himself,  with  a  very  ill  grace. 

"  No  offense,  mister.  Ask  me  what  you  will  besides,  and  I'll  do 
it  for  you.  But  don't  ask  me  to  shake  hands  with  John  Jago ;  I 
hate  him  too  badly  for  that.  If  I  touched  him  with  one  hand,  sir, 
I  tell  you  this,  I  should  throttle  him  with  the  other." 

"  That's  your  feeling  toward  the  man,  Mr.  Silas,  is  it  ?" 

"  That's  my  feeling,  Mr.  Lefrank ;  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it  ei- 
ther." 

"  Is  there  any  such  place  as  a  church  in  your  neighborhood,  Mr. 
Silas?" 

"  Of  course  there  is." 

"And  do  you  ever  go  to  it ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  At  long  intervals,  Mr.  Silas  ?" 

"Every  Sunday,  sir,  without  fail." 

Some  third  person  behind  me  burst  out  laughing ;  some  third 
person  had  been  listening  to  our  talk.  I  turned  round,  and  discov- 
ered Ambrose  Meadowcroft. 

"  I  understand  the  drift  of  your  catechism,  sir,  though  my  brother 
doesn't,"  he  said.  "  Don't  be  hard  on  Silas,  sir.  He  isn't  the  only 
Christian  who  leaves  his  Christianity  in  the  pew  when  he  goes  out 
of  church.  You  will  never  make  us  friends  with  John  Jago,  try  as 
you  may.  Why,  what  have  you  got  there,  Mr.  Lefrank  ?  May  I  die 
if  it  isn't  my  stick  !  I  have  been  looking  for  it  everywhere !" 

The  thick  beechen  stick  had  been  feeling  uncomfortably  heavy  in 
my  invalid  hand  for  some  time  past.  There  was  no  sort  of  need  for 
my  keeping  it  any  longer.  John  Jago  was  going  away  to  Narrabee, 
and  Silas  Meadowcroft 's  savage  temper  was  subdued  to  a  sulky  re- 
pose. I  handed  the  stick  back  to  Ambrose.  He  laughed  as  he  took 
it  from  me. 

"You  can't  think  how  strange  it  feels,  Mr.  Lefrank,  to  be  out 
without  one's  stick,"  he  said.  "  A  man  gets  used  to  his  stick,  sir ; 
doesn't  he  ?  Are  you  ready  for  your  breakfast  ?" 

"  Not  just  yet.     I  thought  of  taking  a  little  walk  first." 

"All  right,  sir.  I  wish  I  could  go  with  you ;  but  I  have  got  my 
work  to  do  this  morning,  and  Silas  has  his  work  too.  If  you  go 
back  by  the  way  you  came,  you  will  find  yourself  in  the  garden. 
If  you  want  to  go  farther,  the  wicket-gate  at  the  end  will  lead  you 
into  the  lane." 

Through  sheer  thoughtlessness,  I  did  a  very  foolish  thing.  I 
turned  back  as  I  was  told,  and  left  the  brothers  together  at  the  gate 
of  the  stable-yard. 


388  THE   DEAD  ALIYB. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   NEWS   FROM   NARRABEE. 

ARRIVED  at  the  garden,  a  thought  struck  me.  The  cheerful 
speech  and  easy  manner  of  Ambrose  plainly  indicated  that  he  was 
ignorant  thus  far  of  the  quarrel  which  had  taken  place  under  my 
window.  Silas  might  confess  to  having  taken  his  brother's  stick, 
and  might  mention  whose  head  he  had  threatened  with  it.  It  was 
not  only  useless,  but  undesirable,  that  Ambrose  should  know  of  the 
quarrel.  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  stable-yard.  Nobody  was  at 
the  gate.  I  called  alternately  to  Silas  and  to  Ambrose.  Nobody  an- 
swered. The  brothers  had  gone  away  to  their  work. 

Returning  to  the  garden,  I  heard  a  pleasant  voice  wishing  me 
"  Good-morning."  I  looked  round.  Naomi  Colebrook  was  stand- 
ing at  one  of  the  lower  windows  of  the  farm.  She  had  her  work- 
ing apron  on,  and  she  was  industriously  brightening  the  knives  for 
the  breakfast-table  on  an  old-fashioned  board.  A  sleek  black  cat 
balanced  himself  on  her  shoulder,  watching  the  flashing  motion  of 
the  knife  as  she  passed  it  rapidly  to  and  fro  on  the  leather-covered 
surface  of  the  board. 

"  Come  here,"  she  said  ;  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

I  noticed,  as  I  approached,  that  her  pretty  face  was  clouded  and 
anxious.  She  pushed  the  cat  irritably  off  her  shoulder ;  she  welcomed 
me  with  only  the  faint  reflection  of  her  bright  customary  smile. 

"I  have  seen  John  Jago,"  she  said.  "He  has  been  hinting  at 
something  which  he  says  happened  under  your  bedroom-window 
this  morning.  When  I  begged  him  to  explain  himself,  he  only  an- 
swered, '  Ask  Mr.  Lefrank  ;  I  must  be  off  to  Narrabee.'  What  does 
it  mean  ?  Tell  me  right  away,  sir !  I'm  out  of  temper,  and  I  can't 
wait !" 

Except  that  I  made  the  best  instead  of  the  worst  of  it,  I  told  her 
what  had  happened  under  my  window  as  plainly  as  I  have  told  it 
here.  She  put  down  the  knife  that  she  was  cleaning,  and  folded 
her  hands  before  her,  thinking. 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  given  John  Jago  that  meeting,"  she  said. 
"  When  a  man  asks  any  thing  of  a  woman,  the  woman,  I  find,  most- 
ly repents  it  if  she  says  '  Yes.' " 

She  made  that  quaint  reflection  with  a  very  troubled  brow.  The 
moonlight  meeting  had  left  some  unwelcome  remembrances  in  her 
mind.  I  saw  that  as  plainly  as  I  saw  Naomi  herself. 


THE   DEAD   ALIVE.  389 

What  had  John  Jago  said  to  her  ?  I  put  the  question  with  all 
needful  delicacy,  making  my  apologies  beforehand. 

"  I  should  like  to  tell  you"  she  began,  with  a  strong  emphasis  on 
the  last  word. 

There  she  stopped.  She  turned  pale ;  then  suddenly  flushed  again 
to  the  deepest  red.  She  took  up  the  knife  once  more,  and  went  on 
cleaning  it  as  industriously  as  ever. 

"  I  mustn't  tell  you,"  she  resumed,  with  her  head  down  over  the 
knife.  "  I  have  promised  not  to  tell  any  body.  That's  the  truth. 
Forget  all  about  it,  sir,  as  soon  as  you  can.  Hush  !  here's  the  spy 
who  saw  us  last  night  on  the  walk,  and  who  told  Silas !" 

Dreary  Miss  Meadowcroft  opened  the  kitchen  door.  She  carried 
an  ostentatiously  large  Prayer-book ;  and  she  looked  at  Naomi  as 
only  a  jealous  woman  of  middle  age  can  look  at  a  younger  and 
prettier  woman  than  herself. 

"  Prayers,  Miss  Cclebrook,"  she  said  in  her  sourest  manner.  She 
paused,  and  noticed  me  standing  under  the  window.  "  Prayers,  Mr. 
Lefrank,"  she  added,  with  a  look  of  devout  pity,  directed  exclusively 
to  my  address. 

"  We  will  follow  you  directly,  Miss  Meadowcroft,"  said  Naomi. 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  intrude  on  your  secrets,  Miss  Colebrook." 

With  that  acrid  answer,  our  priestess  took  herself  and  her  Prayer- 
book  out  of  the  kitchen.  I  joined  Naomi,  entering  the  room  by  the 
garden  door.  She  met  me  eagerly. 

"  I  am  not  quite  easy  about  something,"  she  said.  "  Did  you  tell 
me  that  you  left  Ambrose  and  Silas  together  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Suppose  Silas  tells  Ambrose  of  what  happened  this  morning  ?" 

The  same  idea,  as  I  have  already  mentioned,  had  occurred  to  my 
mind.  I  did  my  best  to  re-assure  Naomi. 

"  Mr.  Jago  is  out  of  the  way,"  I  replied.  "  You  and  I  can  easily 
put  things  right  in  his  absence." 

She  took  my  arm. 

"  Come  in  to  prayers,"  she  said.  "  Ambrose  will  be  there,  and  I 
shall  find  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him." 

Neither  Ambrose  nor  Silas  was  in  the  breakfast-room  when  we 
entered  it.  After  waiting  vainly  for  ten  minutes,  Mr.  Meadowcroft 
told  his  daughter  to  read  the  prayers.  Miss  Meadowcroft  read, 
thereupon,  in  the  tone  of  an  injured  woman  taking  the  throne  of 
mercy  by  storm,  and  insisting  on  her  rights.  Breakfast  followed ; 
and  still  the  brothers  were  absent.  Miss  Meadowcroft  looked  at  her 
father,  and  said,  "From  bad  to  worse,  sir.  What  did  I  tell  you?" 
Naomi  instantly  applied  the  antidote :  "  The  boys  are  no  doubt 
detained  over  their  work,  uncle."  She  turned  to  me.  "  You  want 
to  see  the  farm,  Mr.  Lefrank.  Come  and  help  me  to  find  the  boys." 


390  THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 

For  more  than  an  hour  we  visited  one  part  of  the  farm  after  an- 
other, without  discovering  the  missing1  men.  We  found  them  at 
last  near  the  outskirts  of  a  small  wood,  sitting,  talking  together,  on 
the  trunk  of  a  felled  tree. 

Silas  rose  as  we  approached,  and  walked  away,  without  a  word 
of  greeting  or  apology,  into  the  wood.  As  he  got  on  his  feet,  I  no- 
ticed that  his  brother  whispered  something  in  his  ear;  and  I  heard 
him  answer,  "All  right." 

"Ambrose,  does  that  mean  you  have  something  to  keep  a  secret 
fr^m  us  ?"  asked  Naomi,  approaching  her  lover  with  a  smile.  "  Is 
Silas  ordered  to  hold  his  tongue  ?" 

Ambrose  kicked  sulkily  at  the  loose  stones  lying  about  him.  I 
noticed,  with  a  certain  surprise,  that  his  favorite  stick  was  not  in  his 
hand,  and  was  not  lying  near  him. 

"  Business,"  he  said  in  answer  to  Naomi,  not  very  graciously — 
"  business  between  Silas  and  me.  That's  what  it  means,  if  you 
must  know." 

Naomi  went  on,  woman-like,  with  her  questions,  heedless  of  the 
reception  which  they  might  meet  with  from  an  irritated  man. 

"Why  were  you  both  away  at  prayers  and  breakfast-time?"  she 
asked  next. 

"  We  had  too  much  to  do,"  Ambrose  gruffly  replied,  "  and  we 
were  too  far  from  the  house." 

"  Very  odd,"  said  Naomi.  "  This  has  never  happened  before  since 
I  have  been  at  the  farm." 

"  Well,  live  and  learn.     It  has  happened  now." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  would  have  warned  any  man  to  let 
him  alone.  But  warnings  which  speak  by  implication  only  are 
thrown  away  on  women.  The  woman,  having  still  something  in 
her  mind  to  say,  said  it. 

"  Have  you  seen  any  thing  of  John  Jago  this  morning  ?" 

The  smouldering  ill  temper  of  Ambrose  burst  suddenly — why,  it 
was  impossible  to  guess — into  a  flame. 

"  How  many  more  questions  am  I  to  answer  ?"  he  broke  out  vio- 
lently. "  Are  you  the  parson  putting  me  through  my  catechism  ? 
I  have  seen  nothing  of  John  Jago,  and  I  have  got  my  work  to  go 
on  with.  Will  that  do  for  you  ?" 

He  turned  with  an  oath,  and  followed  his  brother  into  the  wood. 
Naomi's  bright  eyes  looked  up  at  me,  flashing  with  indignation. 

"  What  does  he  mean,  Mr.  Lefrank,  by  speaking  to  me  in  that 
way  ?  Kude  brute !  How  dare  he  do  it  ?"  She  paused  ;  her  voice, 
look,  and  manner  suddenly  changed.  "This  has  never  happened 
before,  sir.  Has  any  thing  gone  wrong?  I  declare,  I  shouldn't 
know  Ambrose  again,  he  is  so  changed.  Say,  how  does  it  strike 
you  ?" 


THE   DEAD   ALIVE.  391 

I  still  made  the  best  of  a  bad  case. 

"  Something  has  upset  his  temper,"  I  said.  "  The  merest  trifle, 
Miss  Colebrook,  upsets  a  man's  temper  sometimes.  I  speak  as  a 
man,  and  I  know  it.  Give  him  time,  and  he  will  make  his  excuses, 
and  all  will  be  well  again." 

My  presentation  of  the  case  entirely  failed  to  re-assure  my  pretty 
companion.  We  went  back  to  the  house.  Dinner-time  came,  and 
the  brothers  appeared.  Their  father  spoke  to  them  of  their  absence 
from  morning  prayers  with  needless  severity,  as  I  thought.  They 
resented  the  reproof  with  needless  indignation  on  their  side,  and 
left  the  room.  A  sour  smile  of  satisfaction  showed  itself  on  Miss 
Meadowcroft's  thin  lips.  She  looked  at  her  father ;  then  raised  her 
eyes  sadly  to  the  ceiling,  and  said,  "  We  can  only  pray  for  them,  sir." 

Naomi  disappeared  after  dinner.  When  I  saw  her  again,  she  had 
some  news  for  me. 

"  I  have  been  with  Ambrose,"  she  said,  "  and  he  has  begged  my 
pardon.  We  have  made  it  up,  Mr.  Lefrank.  Still — still — 

"  Still—  what,  Miss  Naomi  ?" 

"  He  is  not  like  himself,  sir.  He  denies  it ;  but  I  can't  help  think- 
ing he  is  hiding  something  from  me." 

The  day  wore  on ;  the  evening  came.  I  returned  to  my  French 
novel.  But  not  even  Dumas  himself  could  keep  my  attention  to  the 
story.  What  else  I  was  thinking  of  I  can  not  say.  Why  I  was  out 
of  spirits  I  am  unable  to  explain.  I  wished  myself  back  in  England : 
I  took  a  blind,  unreasoning  hatred  to  Morwick  Farm. 

Nine  o'clock  struck ;  and  we  all  assembled  again  at  supper,  with 
the  exception  of  John  Jago.  He  was  expected  back  to  supper;  and 
we  waited  for  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  by  Mr.  Meadowcroft's  own 
directions.  John  Jago  never  appeared. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  still  the  absent  man  failed  to  return. 
Miss  Meadowcroft  volunteered  to  sit  up  for  him.  Naomi  eyed  her, 
a  little  maliciously  I  must  own,  as  the  two  women  parted  for  the 
night.  I  withdrew  to  my  room;  and  again  I  was  unable  to  sleep. 
When  sunrise  came,  I  went  out,  as  before,  to  breathe  the  morning 
air. 

On  the  staircase  I  met  Miss  Meadowcroft  ascending  to  her  own 
room.  Not  a  curl  of  her  stiff  gray  hair  was  disarranged;  nothing 
about  the  impenetrable  woman  betrayed  that  she  had  been  watching 
through  the  night. 

"  Has  Mr.  Jago  not  returned  ?"  I  asked. 

Miss  Meadowcroft  slowly  shook  her  head,  and  frowned  at  me. 

"We  are  in  the  hands  of  Providence,  Mr.  Lefrank.  Mr.  Jago 
must  have  l>een  detained  for  the  night  at  Narrabee." 

The  daily  routine  of  the  meals  resumed  its  unalterable  course. 
Breakfast  -  time  came,  and  dinner-time  came,  and  no  John  Jago 


392  THE   DEAD  ALIVE. 

darkened  the  doors  of  Morwick  Farm.  Mr.  Meadowcroft  and  hia 
daughter  consulted  together,  and  determined  to  send  in  search  of 
the  missing  man.  One  of  the  more  intelligent  of  the  laborers  was 
dispatched  to  Narrabee  to  make  inquiries. 

The  man  returned  late  in  the  evening,  bringing  startling  news  to 
the  farm.  He  had  visited  all  the  inns,  and  all  the  places  of  business 
resort  in  Narrabee ;  he  had  made  endless  inquiries  in  every  direction, 
with  this  result  —  no  one  had  set  eyes  on  John  Jago.  Every  body 
declared  that  John  Jago  had  not  entered  the  town. 

We  all  looked  at  each  other,  excepting  the  two  brothers,  who 
were  seated  together  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room.  The  conclusion 
appeared  to  be  inevitable.  John  Jago  was  a  lost  man. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE     LIMEKILN. 

MB.  MEADOWCROFT  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Somebody  must  find  John,"  he  said. 

"  Without  losing  a  moment,"  added  his  daughter. 

Ambrose  suddenly  stepped  out  of  the  dark  corner  of  the  room. 

"/  will  inquire,"  he  said. 

Silas  followed  him. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  he  added. 

Mr.  Meadowcroft  interposed  his  authority. 

"  One  of  you  will  be  enough ;  for  the  present,  at  least.  Go  you, 
Ambrose.  Your  brother  may  be  wanted  later.  If  any  accident  has 
happened  (which  God  forbid  !)  we  may  have  to  inquire  in  more 
than  one  direction.  Silas,  you  will  stay  at  the  farm." 

The  brothers  withdrew  together;  Ambrose  to  prepare  for  his 
journey,  Silas  to  saddle  one  of  the  horses  for  him.  Naomi  slipped 
out  after  them.  Left  in  company  with  Mr.  Meadowcroft  and  his 
daughter  (both  devoured  by  anxiety  about  the  missing  man,  and 
both  trying  to  conceal  it  under  an  assumption  of  devout  resignation 
to  circumstances),  I  need  hardly  add  that  I,  too,  retired,  as  soon  as 
it  was  politely  possible  for  me  to  leave  the  room.  Ascending  the 
stairs  on  my  way  to  my  own  quarters,  I  discovered  Naomi  half  hid- 
den by  the  recess  formed  by  an  old-fashioned  window-seat  on  the 
first  landing.  My  bright  little  friend  was  in  sore  trouble.  Her 
apron  was  over  her  face,  and  she  was  crying  bitterly.  Ambrose  had 
not  taken  his  leave  as  tenderly  as  usual.  She  was  more  firmly  per- 
suaded than  ever  that  "  Ambrose  was  hiding  something  from  her." 
We  all  waited  anxiously  for  the  next  day.  The  next  day  made  the 
mystery  deeper  than  ever. 


THE   DEAD   ALIVK.  393 

The  horse  which  had  taken  Ambrose  to  Narrabee  was  ridden 
back  to  the  farm  by  a  groom  from  the  hotel.  He  delivered  a  writ- 
ten message  from  Ambrose  which  startled  us.  Further  inquiries 
hiul  positively  proved  that  the  missing  man  had  never  been  near 
Narrabee.  The  only  attainable  tidings  of  his  whereabouts  were  ti- 
dings derived  from  vague  report.  It  was  said  that  a  man  like  John 
Jago  had  been  seen  the  previous  day  in  a  railway  car,  traveling  on 
the  line  to  New  York.  Acting  on  this  imperfect  information,  Am- 
brose had  decided  on  verifying  the  truth  of  the  report  by  extending 
his  inquiries  to  New  York. 

This  extraordinary  proceeding  forced  the  suspicion  on  me  that 
something  had  really  gone  wrong.  I  kept  my  doubts  to  myself; 
but  I  was  prepared,  from  that  moment,  to  see  the  disappearance  of 
John  Jago  followed  by  very  grave  results. 

The  same  day  the  results  declared  themselves. 

Time  enough  had  now  elapsed  for  report  to  spread  through  the 
district  the  news  of  what  had  happened  at  the  farm.  Already  aware 
of  the  bad  feeling  existing  between  the  men,  the  neighbors  had  been 
now  informed  (no  doubt  by  the  laborers  present)  of  the  deplorable 
scene  that  had  taken  place  under  my  bedroom  window.  Public 
opinion  declares  itself  in  America  without  the  slightest  reserve,  or 
the  slightest  care  for  consequences.  Public  opinion  declared  on  this 
occasion  that  the  lost  man  was  the  victim  of  foul  play,  and  held  one 
or  both  of  the  brothers  Meadowcroft  responsible  for  his  disappear- 
ance. Later  in  the  day,  the  reasonableness  of  this  serious  view  of 
the  case  was  confirmed  in  the  popular  mind  by  a  startling  discov- 
ery. It  was  announced  that  a  Methodist  preacher  lately  settled  at 
Morwick,  and  greatly  respected  throughout  the  district,  had  dream- 
ed of  John  Jago  in  the  character  of  a  murdered  man,  whose  bones 
were  hidden  at  Morwick  Farm.  Before  night  the  cry  was  general 
for  a  verification  of  the  preacher's  dream.  Not  only  in  the  imme- 
diate district,  but  in  the  town  of  Narrabee  itself,  the  public  voice 
insisted  on  the  necessity  of  a  search  for  the  mortal  remains  of  John 
Jago  at  Morwick  Farm. 

In  the  terrible  turn  which  matters  had  now  taken,  Mr.  Meadow- 
croft  the  elder  displayed  a  spirit  and  an  energy  for  which  I  was  not 
prepared. 

"  My  sons  have  their  faults,"  he  said,  "  serious  faults ;  and  nobody 
knows  it  better  than  I  do.  My  sons  have  behaved  badly  and  un- 
gratefully toward  John  Jago ;  I  don't  deny  that,  either.  But  Am- 
brose and  Silas  are  not  murderers.  Make  your  search !  I  ask  for 
it ;  no,  I  insist  on  it,  after  what  has  been  said,  in  justice  to  my  family 
and  my  name !" 

The  neighbors  took  him  at  his  word.  The  Morwick  section  of 
the  American  nation  organized  itself  on  the  spot.  The  sovereign 


394  THE   DEAD   ALIVE. 

people  met  in  committee,  made  speeches,  elected  competent  persons 
to  represent  the  public  interests,  and  began  the  search  the  next  day. 
The  whole  proceeding,  ridiculously  informal  from  a  legal  point  of 
view,  was  carried  on  by  these  extraordinary  people  with  as  stern 
and  strict  a  sense  of  duty  as  if  it  had  been  sanctioned  by  the  high- 
eet  tribunal  in  the  land. 

Naomi  met  the  calamity  that  had  fallen  on  the  household  as  res- 
olutely as  her  uncle  himself.  The  girl's  courage  rose  with  the  call 
which  was  made  on  it.  Her  one  anxiety  was  for  Ambrose. 

"  He  ought  to  be  here,"  she  said  to  me.  "  The  wretches  in  this 
neighborhood  are  wicked  enough  to  say  that  his  absence  is  a  con- 
fession of  his  guilt." 

She  was  right.  In  the  present  temper  of  the  popular  mind,  the 
absence  of  Ambrose  was  a  suspicious  circumstance  in  itself. 

"  We  might  telegraph  to  New  York,"  I  suggested,  "  if  you  only 
knew  where  a  message  would  be  likely  to  find  him." 

"  I  know  the  hotel  which  the  Meadowcrofts  use  at  New  York," 
she  replied.  "  I  was  sent  there,  after  my  father's  death,  to  wait  till 
Miss  Meadowcroft  could  take  me  to  Morwick." 

We  decided  on  telegraphing  to  the  hotel.  I  was  writing  the  mes- 
sage, and  Naomi  was  looking  over  my  shoulder,  when  we  were  star- 
tled by  a  strange  voice  speaking  close  behind  us. 

"  Oh  !  that's  his  address,  is  it  ?"  said  the  voice.  "  We  wanted  his 
address  rather  badly." 

The  speaker  was  a  stranger  to  me.  Naomi  recognized  him  as  one 
of  the  neighbors.  f 

"  What  do  you  want  his  address  for  ?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

"  I  guess  we've  found  the  mortal  remains  of  John  Jago,  miss," 
the  man  replied.  "  We  have  got  Silas  already,  and  we  want  Am- 
brose too,  on  suspicion  of  murder." 

"  It's  a  lie  !"  cried  Naomi,  furiously — "  a  wicked  lie !" 

The  man  turned  to  me. 

"  Take  her  into  the  next  room,  mister,"  he  said,  "  and  let  her  see 
for  herself." 

We  went  together  into  the  next  room. 

In  one  corner,  sitting  by  her  father,  and  holding  his  hand,  we  saw 
stern  and  stony  Miss  Meadowcroft  weeping  silently.  Opposite  to 
them,  crouched  on  the  window-seat,  his  eyes  wandering,  his  hands 
hanging  helpless,  we  next  discovered  Silas  Meadowcroft,  plainly  self- 
betrayed  as  a  panic-stricken  man.  A  few  of  the  persons  who  had  been 
engaged  in  the  search  were  seated  near,  watching  him.  The  mass  of 
the  strangers  present  stood  congregated  round  a  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  They  drew  aside  as  I  approached  with  Naomi,  and  al- 
lowed us  to  have  a  clear  view  of  certain  objects  placed  on  the  table. 

The  centre  object  of  the  collection  was  a  little  heap  of  charred 


THE    DEAD    AI.IVK.  305 

bones.  Round  this  were  ranged  a  knife,  two  metal  buttons,  and  a 
«ti(  K  partially  burnrd.  The  knife  was  recognized  by  the  laborers 
as  the  weapon  John  Jago  habitually  carried  about  with  him — the 
weapon  \\itli  which  he  had  wounded  Silas  Meadowcroft's  hand, 
The  buttons  Naomi  herself  declared  to  have  a  peculiar  pattern  on 
them,  which  had  formerly  attracted  her  attention  to  John  Jago's 
coat.  As  for  the  stick,  burned  as  it  was,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  iden- 
tifying the  quaintly-carved  knob  at  the  top.  It  was  the  heavy 
birchen  stick  which  I  had  snatched  out  of  Silas's  hand,  and  which 
I  had  restored  to  Ambrose  on  his  claiming  it  as  his  own.  In  re- 
ply to  my  inquiries,  I  was  informed  that  the  bones,  the  knife,  the 
buttons,  and  the  stick  had  all  been  found  together  in  a  limekiln 
then  in  use  on  the  farm. 

"  Is  it  serious  ?"  Naomi  whispered  to  me  as  we  drew  back  from 
the  table. 

It  would  have  been  sheer  cruelty  to  deceive  her  now. 

"  Yes,"  I  whispered  back  ;  "  it  is  serious." 

The  search  committee  conducted  its  proceedings  with  the  strict- 
est regularity.  The  proper  applications  were  made  forthwith  to  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  and  the  justice  issued  his  warrant.  That  night 
Silas  was  committed  to  prison ;  and  an  officer  was  dispatched  to 
arrest  Ambrose  in  New  York. 

For  my  part,  I  did  the  little  I  could  to  make  myself  useful.  With 
the  silent  sanction  of  Mr.  Meadowcroft  and  his  daughter,  I  went 
to  Narrabee,  and  secured  the  best  legal  assistance  for  the  defense 
which  the  town  could  place  at  my  disposal.  This  done,  there  was 
no  choice  but  to  wait  for  news  of  Ambrose,  and  for  the  examination 
before  the  magistrate  which  was  to  follow.  I  shall  pass  over  the 
misery  in  the  house  during  the  interval  of  expectation ;  no  useful 
purpose  could  be  served  by  describing  it  now.  Let  me  only  say 
that  Naomi's  conduct  strengthened  me  in  the  conviction  that  she 
possessed  a  noble  nature.  I  was  unconscious  of  the  state  of  my 
own  feelings  at  the  time ;  but  I  am  now  disposed  to  think  that  this 
was  the  epoch  at  which  I  began  to  envy  Ambrose  the  wife  whom 
he  had  won. 

The  telegraph  brought  us  our  first  news  of  Ambrose.  He  had 
been  arrested  at  the  hotel,  and  be  was  on  his  way  to  Morwick. 
The  next  day  he  arrived,  and  followed  his  brother  to  prison.  The 
two  were  confined  in  separate  cells,  and  were  forbidden  all  commu- 
nication with  each  other. 

Two  days  later,  the  preliminary  examination  took  place.  Am- 
brose and  Silas  Meadowcroft  were  charged  before  the  magistrate 
with  the  willful  murder  of  John  Jago.  I  was  cited  to  appear  as 
one  of  the  witnesses;  and,  at  Naomi's  own  request,  I  took  the 
poor  girl  into  court,  and  sat  by  her  during  the  proceedings.  My 


THE   DEAD   ALIVE. 


host  also  was  present  in  his  invalid-chair,  with  his  daughter  by  his 
side. 

Such  was  the  result  of  my  voyage  across  the  ocean  in  search  of 
rest  and  quiet;  and  thus  did  time  and  chance  fulfill  my  first  hasty 
forebodings  of  the  dull  life  I  was  to  lead  at  Morwick  Farm ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   MATERIALS   IN   THE   DEFENSE. 

ON  our  way  to  the  chairs  allotted  to  us  in  the  magistrate's  court, 
we  passed  the  platform  on  which  the  prisoners  were  standing  to- 
gether. 

Silas  took  no  notice  of  us.  Ambrose  made  a  friendly  sign  of 
recognition,  and  then  rested  his  hand  on  the  "  bar  "  in  front  of  him. 
As  she  passed  beneath  him,  Naomi  was  just  tall  enough  to  reach 
his  hand  on  tiptoe.  She  took  it.  "  I  know  you  are  innocent,"  she 
whispered,  and  gave  him  one  look  of  loving  encouragement  as  she 
followed  me  to  her  place.  Ambrose  never  lost  his  self-control.  I 
may  have  been  wrong ;  but  I  thought  this  a  bad  sign. 

The  case,  as  stated  for  the  prosecution,  told  strongly  against  the 
suspected  men. 

Ambrose  and  Silas  Meadowcroft  were  charged  with  the  murder 
of  John  Jago  (by  means  of  the  stick  or  by  use  of  some  other  weap- 
on), and  with  the  deliberate  destruction  of  the  body  by  throwing 
it  into  the  quicklime.  In  proof  of  this  latter  assertion,  the  knife 
which  the  deceased  habitually  carried  about  him,  and  the  metal 
buttons  which  were  known  to  belong  to  his  coat,  were  produced. 
It  was  argued  that  these  indestructible  substances,  and  some  frag- 
ments of  the  larger  bones,  had  alone  escaped  the  action  of  the  burn- 
ing lime.  Having  produced  medical  witnesses  to  support  this  theo- 
ry by  declaring  the  bones  to  be  human,  and  having  thus  circum- 
stantially asserted  the  discovery  of  the  remains  in  the  kiln,  the  pros- 
ecution next  proceeded  to  prove  that  the  missing  man  had  been 
murdered  by  the  two  brothers,  and  had  been  by  them  thrown  into 
the  quicklime  as  a  means  of  concealing  their  guilt. 

Witness  after  witness  deposed  to  the  inveterate  enmity  against 
the  deceased  displayed  by  Ambrose  and  Silas.  The  threatening 
language  they  habitually  used  toward  him ;  their  violent  quarrels 
with  him,  which  had  become  a  public  scandal  throughout  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  which  had  ended  (on  one  occasion  at  least)  in  a  blow ; 
the  disgraceful  scene  which  had  taken  place  under  my  window; 
and  the  restoration  to  Ambrose,  on  the  morning  of  the  fatal  quarrel, 
of  the  very  stick  which  had  been  found  among  the  remains  of  the 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  397 

dead  man  —  these  facts  and  events,  and  a  host  of  minor  circum- 
stances besides,  sworn  to  by  witnesses  whose  credit  was  unimpeach- 
able, pointed  with  terrible  directness  to  the  conclusion  at  which  the 
prosecution  had  arrived. 

I  looked  at  the  brothers  as  the  weight  of  the  evidence  pressed 
more  and  more  heavily  against  them.  To  outward  view  at  least, 
Ambrose  still  maintained  his  self-possession.  It  was  far  otherwise 
with  Silas.  Abject  terror  showed  itself  in  his  ghastly  face;  in  his 
great  knotty  hands,  clinging  convulsively  to  the  bar  at  which  he 
stood ;  in  his  staring  eyes,  fixed  in  vacant  horror  on  each  witness 
who  appeared.  Public  feeling  judged  him  on  the  spot.  There  he 
stood,  self-betrayed  already,  in  the  popular  opinion,  as  a  guilty  man  1 

The  one  point  gained  in  cross-examination  by  the  defense  related 
to  the  charred  bones. 

Pressed  on  this  point,  a  majority  of  the  medical  witnesses  admit- 
ted  that  their  examination  had  been  a  hurried  one ;  and  that  it  was 
just  possible  that  the  bones  might  yet  prove  to  be  the  remains  of  an 
animal,  and  not  of  a  man.  The  presiding  magistrate  decided  upon 
this  that  a  second  examination  should  be  made,  and  that  the  num- 
ber of  the  medical  experts  should  be  increased. 

Here  the  preliminary  proceedings  ended.  The  prisoners  were  re- 
manded for  three  days. 

The  prostration  of  Silas,  at  the  close  of  the  inquiry,  was  so  com- 
plete, that  it  was  found  necessary  to  have  two  men  to  support  him 
on  his  leaving  the  court.  Ambrose  leaned  over  the  bar  to  speak  to 
Naomi  before  he  followed  the  jailer  out.  "  Wait,"  he  whispered, 
confidently, "  till  they  hear  what  I  have  to  say !"  Naomi  kissed  her 
hand  to  him  affectionately,  and  turned  to  me  with  the  bright  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Why  don't  they  hear  what  he  has  to  say  at  once  ?"  she  asked. 
"  Any  body  can  see  that  Ambrose  is  innocent.  It's  a  crying  shame, 
sir,  to  send  him  back  to  prison.  Don't  you  think  so  yourself?" 

If  I  had  confessed  what  I  really  thought,  I  should  have  said  that 
Ambrose  had  proved  nothing  to  my  mind,  except  that  he  possessed 
rare  powers  of  self-control.  It  was  impossible  to  acknowledge  this 
to  my  little  friend.  I  diverted  her  mind  from  the  question  of  her 
lover's  innocence  by  proposing  that  we  should  get  the  necessary  or- 
der, and  visit  him  in  his  prison  on  the  next  day.  Naomi  dried  her 
tears,  and  gave  me  a  little  grateful  squeeze  of  the  hand. 

"Oh  my!  what  a  good  fellow  you  are!"  cried  the  outspoken 
American  girl.  "  When  your  time  comes  to  be  married,  sir,  I  guess 
the  woman  won't  repent  saying  yes  to  you  /" 

Mr.  Meadowcroft  preserved  unbroken  silence  as  we  walked  back 
to  the  farm  on  either  side  of  his  invalid-chair.  His  last  reserves  of 
resolution  seemed  to  have  given  way  under  the  overwhelming  strain 

17 


898  THE  DEAD  ALIVE. 

laid  on  them  by  the  proceedings  in  court.  His  daughter,  in  stern 
indulgence  to  Naomi,  mercifully  permitted  her  opinion  to  glimmer 
on  us  only  through  the  medium  of  quotation  from  Scripture  texts. 
If  the  texts  meant  any  thing,  they  meant  that  she  had  foreseen  all 
that  had  happened ;  and  that  the  one  sad  aspect  of  the  case,  to  her 
mind,  was  the  death  of  John  Jago,  unprepared  to  meet  his  end. 

I  obtained  the  order  of  admission  to  the  prison  the  next  morning. 

We  found  Ambrose  still  confident  of  the  favorable  result,  for  his 
brother  and  for  himself,  of  the  inquiry  before  the  magistrate.  He 
seemed  to  be  almost  as  eager  to  tell,  as  Naomi  was  to  hear,  the  true 
story  of  what  had  happened  at  the  limekiln.  The  authorities  of 
the  prison — present,  of  course,  at  the  interview — warned  him  to  re- 
member that  what  he  said  might  be  taken  down  in  writing,  and 
produced  against  him  in  court. 

"  Take  it  down,  gentlemen,  and  welcome,"  Ambrose  replied.  "  I 
have  nothing  to  fear ;  I  am  only  telling  the  truth." 

With  that  he  turned  to  Naomi,  and  began  his  narrative,  as  nearly 
as  I  can  remember,  in  these  words : 

"  I  may  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  at  starting,  my  girl. 
After  Mr.  Lefrank  left  us  that  morning,  I  asked  Silas  how  he  came 
by  my  stick.  In  telling  me  how,  Silas  also  told  me  of  the  words 
that  had  passed  between  him  and  John  Jago  under  Mr.  Lefrank's 
window.  I  was  angry  and  jealous;  and  I  own  it  freely,  Naomi,  I 
thought  the  worst  that  could  be  thought  about  you  and  John." 

Here  Naomi  stopped  him  without  ceremony. 

"  Was  that  what  made  you  speak  to  me  as  you  spoke  when  we 
found  you  at  the  wood  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"And  was  that  what  made  you  leave  me,  when  you  went  away  to 
Narrabee,  without  giving  me  a  kiss  at  parting  ?" 

"  It  was." 

"  Beg  my  pardon  for  it  before  you  say  a  word  more." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Say  you  are  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  Ambrose  answered  penitently. 

"  Now  you  may  go  on,"  said  Naomi.     "  Now  I'm  satisfied." 

Ambrose  went  on. 

"  We  were  on  our  way  to  the  clearing  at  the  other  side  of  the 
wood  while  Silas  was  talking  to  me ;  and,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it, 
we  took  the  path  that  led  by  the  limekiln.  Turning  the  corner, 
we  met  John  Jago  on  his  way  to  Narrabee.  I  was  too  angry,  I  tell 
you,  to  let  him  pass  quietly.  I  gave  him  a  bit  of  my  mind.  His 
blood  was  up  too,  I  suppose ;  and  he  spoke  out,  on  his  side,  as  free- 
ly as  I  did.  I  own  I  threatened  him  with  the  stick ;  but  I'll  swear 
vo  it  J  meant  him  no  harm.  You  know — after  dressing  Silas's  hand 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  399 

— that  John  Jago  is  ready  with  his  knife.  He  comes  from  out  West, 
where  they  are  always  ready  with  one  weapon  or  another  handy  in 
their  pockets.  It's  likely  enough  he  didn't  mean  to  harm  me,  ei- 
t  IK  r ;  but  how  could  I  be  sure  of  that  ?  When  he  stepped  up  to  me, 
and  showed  his  weapon,  I  dropped  the  stick,  and  closed  with  him. 
With  one  hand  I  wrenched  the  knife  away  from  him ;  and  with  the 
other  I  caught  him  by  the  collar  of  his  rotten  old  coat,  and  gave  him 
a  shaking  that  made  his  bones  rattle  in  his  skin.  A  big  piece  of 
the  cloth  came  away  in  my  hand.  I  shied  it  into  the  quicklime 
close  by  us,  and  I  pitched  the  knife  after  the  cloth;  and,  if  Silas 
hadn't  stopped  me,  I  think  it's  likely  I  might  have  shied  John  Jago 
himself  into  the  lime  next.  As  it  was,  Silas  kept  hold  of  me.  Silas 
shouted  out  to  him,  '  Be  off  with  you !  and  don't  come  back  again, 
if  you  don't  want  to  be  burned  in  the  kiln  !'  He  stood  looking  at 
us  fora  minute,  fetching  his  breath,  and  holding  his  torn  coat  round 
him.  Then  he  spoke  with  a  deadly-quiet  voice  and  a  deadly-quiet 
look :  '  Many  a  true  word,  Mr.  Silas,'  he  says,  '  is  spoken  in  jest.  / 
xhall  not  come  back  again.''  He  turned  about,  and  left  us.  We  stood 
staring  at  each  other  like  a  couple  of  fools.  '  You  don't  think  he 
means  it  ?'  I  says.  '  Bosh  !'  says  Silas.  '  He's  too  sweet  on  Naomi 
not  to  come  back.'  What's  the  matter  now,  Naomi  ?" 

I  had  noticed  it  too.  She  started  and  turned  pale,  when  Am- 
brose repeated  to  her  what  Silas  had  said  to  him. 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter,"  Naomi  answered.  "  Your  brother  has 
no  right  to  take  liberties  with  my  name.  Go  on.  Did  Silas  say 
any  more  while  he  was  about  it  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  looked  into  the  kiln ;  and  he  says, '  What  made  you 
throw  away  the  knife,  Ambrose  ?' — '  How  does  a  man  know  why 
he  does  any  thing,'  I  says,  'when  he  does  it  in  a  passion?' — 'It's  a 
ripping  good  knife,'  says  Silas ;  '  in  your  place,  I  should  have  kept 
it.'  I  picked  up  the  stick  off  the  ground.  '  Who  says  I've  lost  it 
yet  ?'  I  answered  him ;  and  with  that  I  got  up  on  the  side  of  the 
kiln,  and  began  sounding  for  the  knife,  to  bring  it,  you  know,  by 
means  of  the  stick,  within  easy  reach  of  a  shovel,  or  some  such 
thing.  '  Give  us  your  hand,'  I  says  to  Silas.  '  Let  me  stretch  out 
a  bit,  and  I'll  have  it  in  no  time.'  Instead  of  finding  the  knife,  I 
came  nigh  to  falling  myself  into  the  burning  lime.  The  vapor 
overpowered  me,  I  suppose.  All  I  know  is,  I  turned  giddy,  and 
(IrnpjH'd  the  stick  in  the  kiln.  I  should  have  followed  the  stick 
to  a  dead  certainty,  but  for  Silas  pulling  me  back  by  the  hand. 
'  Let  it  be,'  says  Silas.  '  If  I  hadn't  had  hold  of  you,  John  Jago's 
knife  would  have  been  the  death  of  you,  after  all  1'  He  led  me 
away  by  the  arm,  and  we  went  on  together  on  the  road  to  the 
wood.  We  stopped  where  you  found  us,  and  sat  down  on  the  fell- 
ed tree.  We  had  a  little  more  talk  about  John  Jago.  It  ended  in 


400  THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 

our  agreeing  to  wait  and  see  what  happened,  and  to  keep  our  own 
counsel  in  the  mean  time.  You  and  Mr.  Lefrank  came  upon  us,  Na- 
omi, while  we  were  still  talking ;  and  you  guessed  right  when  you 
guessed  that  we  had  a  secret  from  you.  You  know  the  secret  now." 

There  he  stopped.  I  put  a  question  to  him — the  first  that  I  had 
asked  yet. 

"  Had  you  or  your  brother  any  fear  at  that  time  of  the  charge 
which  has  since  been  brought  against  you  ?"  I  said. 

"No  such  thought  entered  our  heads,  sir,"  Ambrose  answered. 
"  How  could  we  foresee  that  the  neighbors  would  search  the  kiln, 
and  say  what  they  have  said  of  us  ?  All  we  feared  was,  that  the 
old  man  might  hear  of  the  quarrel,  and  be  bitterer  against  us  than 
ever.  I  was  the  more  anxious  of  the  two  to  keep  things  secret,  be- 
cause I  had  Naomi  to  consider  as  well  as  the  old  man.  Put  your- 
self in  my  place,  and  you  will  own,  sir,  that  the  prospect  at  home 
was  not  a  pleasant  one  for  me,  if  John  Jago  really  kept  away  from 
the  farm,  and  if  it  came  out  that  it  was  all  my  doing." 

(This  was  certainly  an  explanation  of  his  conduct;  but  it  was 
not  quite  satisfactory  to  my  mind.) 

"As  you  believe,  then,"  I  went  on,  "John  Jago  has  carried  out 
his  threat  of  not  returning  to  the  farm  ?  According  to  you,  he  is 
now  alive,  and  in  hiding  somewhere  ?" 

"  Certainly !"  said  Ambrose. 

"  Certainly !"  repeated  Naomi. 

"Do  you  believe  the  report  that  he  was  seen  traveling  on  the 
railway  to  New  York  ?" 

"I  believe  it  firmly,  sir;  and,  what  is  more,  I  believe  I  was  on  his 
track.  I  was  only  too  anxious  to  find  him ;  and  I  say  I  could  have 
found  him  if  they  would  have  let  me  stay  in  New  York." 

I  looked  at  Naomi. 

"  I  believe  it  too,"  she  said.    "  John  Jago  is  keeping  away." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  is  afraid  of  Ambrose  and  Silas  ?" 

She  hesitated. 

"  He  may  be  afraid  of  them,"  she  replied,  with  a  strong  emphasis 
on  the  word  "  may." 

"  But  you  ddn't  think  it  likely  ?" 

She  hesitated  again.     I  pressed  her  again. 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  any  other  motive  for  his  absence  ?" 

Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor.  She  answered  obstinately,  almost 
doggedly, 

"  I  can't  say." 

I  addressed  myself  to  Ambrose. 

"  Have  you  any  thing  more  to  tell  us  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  I  have  told  you  all  I  know  about  it." 

I  rose  to  speak  to  the  lawyer  whose  services  I  had  retained.    He 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  401 

had  helped  us  to  get  the  order  of  admission,  and  he  had  accompa- 
nied us  to  the  prison.  Seated  apart,  he  had  kept  silence  through- 
out, attentively  watching  the  effect  of  Ambrose  Meadowcroft's  nar- 
rative mi  the  officers  of  the  prison  and  on  me. 

"  Is  this  the  defense  ?"  I  inquired,  in  a  whisper. 

"  This  is  the  defense,  Mr.  Lefrank.  What  do  you  think,  between 
ourselves  ?" 

"  Between  ourselves,  I  think  the  magistrate  will  commit  them,  for 
trial." 

"On  the  charge  of  murder?" 

"  Yes,  on  the  charge  of  murder." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE     CONFESSION. 

MY  replies  to  the  lawyer  accurately  expressed  the  conviction  in 
my  mind.  The  narrative  related  by  Ambrose  had  all  the  appear- 
ance, in  my  eyes,  of  a  fabricated  story,  got  up,  and  clumsily  got  up, 
to  pervert  the  plain  meaning  of  the  circumstantial  evidence  pro- 
duced by  the  prosecution.  I  reached  this  conclusion  reluctantly 
and  regretfully,  for  Naomi's  sake.  I  said  all  I  could  say  to  shake 
the  absolute  confidence  which  she  felt  in  the  discharge  of  the  pris- 
oners at  the  next  examination. 

The  day  of  the  adjourned  inquiry  arrived. 

Naomi  and  I  again  attended  the  court  together.  Mr.  Meadow- 
croft  was  unable,  on  this  occasion,  to  leave  the  house.  His  daugh- 
ter was  present,  walking  to  the  court  by  herself,  and  occupying  a 
seat  by  herself. 

On  his  second  appearance  at  the  "  bar,"  Silas  was  more  composed, 
and  more  like  his  brother.  No  new  witnesses  were  called  by  the 
prosecution.  We  began  the  battle  over  the  medical  evidence  rela- 
ting to  the  charred  bones ;  and,  to  some  extent,  we  won  the  victory. 
In  other  words,  we  forced  the  doctors  to  acknowledge  that  they  dif- 
fered widely  in  their  opinions.  Three  confessed  that  they  were  not 
certain.  Two  went  still  further,  and  declared  that  the  bones  were 
the  bones  of  an  animal,  not  of  a  man.  We  made  the  most  of  this; 
and  then  we  entered  upon  the  defense,  founded  on  Ambrose  Mead- 
owcroft's  story. 

Necessarily,  no  witnesses  could  be  called  on  our  side.  Whether 
this  circumstance  discouraged  him,  or  whether  he  privately  shared 
my  opinion  of  his  client's  statement,  I  can  not  say.  It  is  only  cer- 
tain that  the  lawyer  spoke  mechanically,  doing  his  best,  no  doubt, 
but  doing  it  without  genuine  conviction  or  earnestness  on  his  own 


402  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

pare,  Naomi  cast  an  anxious  glance  at  me  as  he  sat  down.  The 
girl's  hand,  as  I  took  it,  turned  cold  in  mine.  She  saw  plain  signs 
of  the  failure  of  the  defense  in  the  look,  and  manner  of  the  counsel 
for  the  prosecution ;  but  she  waited  resolutely  until  the  presiding 
magistrate  announced  his  decision.  I  had  only  too  clearly  foreseen 
what  he  would  feel  it  to  be  his  duty  to  do.  Naomi's  head  dropped 
on  my  shoulder  as  he  said  the  terrible  words  which  committed  Am- 
brose and  Silas  Meadowcroft  to  take  their  trial  on  the  charge  of 
murder. 

I  led  her  out  of  the  court  into  the  air.  As  I  passed  the  "bar," 
I  saw  Ambrose,  deadly  pale,  looking  after  us  as  we  left  him :  the 
magistrate's  decision  had  evidently  daunted  him.  His  brother  Silas 
had  dropped  in  abject  terror  on  the  jailer's  chair ;  the  miserable 
wretch  shook  and  shuddered  dumbly,  like  a  cowed  dog. 

Miss  Meadowcroft  returned  with  us  to  the  farm,  preserving  un- 
broken silence  on  the  way  back.  I  could  detect  nothing  in  her 
bearing  which  suggested  any  compassionate  feeling  for  the  prison- 
ers in  her  stern  and  secret  nature.  On  Naomi's  withdrawal  to  her 
own  room,  we  were  left  together  for  a  few  minutes ;  and  then,  to  my 
astonishment,  the  outwardly  merciless  woman  showed  me  that  she, 
too,  was  one  of  Eve's  daughters,  and  could  feel  and  suffer,  in  her 
own  hard  way,  like  the  rest  of  us.  She  suddenly  stepped  close  up 
to  me,  and  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  You  are  a  lawyer,  an't  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  had  any  experience  in  your  profession  ?" 

"  Ten  years'  experience." 

"  t)o  you  think — "  She  stopped  abruptly ;  her  hard  face  soften- 
ed; her  eyes  dropped  to  the  ground.  "Never  mind,"  she  said, con- 
fusedly. "  I'm  upset  by  all  this  misery,  though  I  may  not  look  like 
it.  Don't  notice  me." 

She  turned  away.  I  waited,  in  the  firm  persuasion  that  the  un- 
spoken question  in  her  mind  would  sooner  or  later  force  its  way  to 
utterance  by  her  lips.  I  was  right.  She  came  back  to  me  unwill- 
ingly, like  a  woman  acting  under  some  influence  which  the  utmost 
exertion  of  her  will  was  powerless  to  resist. 

"  Do  you  believe  John  Jago  is  still  a  living  man  ?" 

She  put  the  question  vehemently,  desperately,  as  if  the  words 
rushed  out  of  her  mouth  in  spite  of  her. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  I  answered. 

"  Remember  what  John  Jago  has  suffered  at  the  hands  of  my 
brothers,"  she  persisted.  "Is  it  not  in  your  experience  that  he 
should  take  a  sudden  resolution  to  leave  the  farm  ?" 

I  replied,  as  plainly  as  before, 

"  It  is  not  in  my  experience." 


THE    DEAD   ALIVE.  403 

She  stood  looking  at  me  for  a  moment  with  a  face  of  blank  de- 
spair ;  then  bowed  her  gray  head  in  silence,  and  left  me.  As  she 
crossed  the  room  to  the  door,  I  saw  her  look  upward ;  and  I  heard 
her  say  to  herself  softly,  between  her  teeth,  "  Vengeance  is  mine,  I 
will  repay,  saith  the  Lord." 

It  was  the  requiem  of  John  Jago,  pronounced  by  the  woman  who 
loved  him. 

When  I  next  saw  her,  her  mask  was  on  once  more.  Miss  Meadow- 
croft  was  herself  again.  Miss  Meadowcroft  could  sit  by,  impenetra- 
bly calm,  while  the  lawyers  discussed  the  terrible  position  of  her 
brothers,  with  the  scaffold  in  view  as  one  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
"  case." 

Left  by  myself,  I  began  to  feel  uneasy  about  Naomi.  I  went  up 
stairs,  and,  knocking  softly  at  her  door,  made  my  inquiries  from 
outside.  The  clear  young  voice  answered  me  sadly,  "  I  am  trying 
to  bear  it :  I  won't  distress  you  when  we  meet  again."  I  descend- 
ed the  stairs,  feeling  my  first  suspicion  of  the  true  nature  of  my  in- 
terest in  the  American  girl.  Why  had  her  answer  brought  the  tears 
into  my  eyes  ?  I  went  out,  walking  alone,  to  think  undisturbedly. 
Why  did  the  tones  of  her  voice  dwell  on  my  ear  all  the  way  ?  Why 
did  my  hand  still  feel  the  last  cold,  faint  pressure  of  her  fingers 
when  I  led  her  out  of  court? 

I  took  a  sudden  resolution  to  go  back  to  England. 

When  I  returned  to  the  farm,  it  was  evening.  The  lamp  was  not 
yet  lit  in  the  hall.  Pausing  to  accustom  my  eyes  to  the  obscurity 
indoors,  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  lawyer  whom  we  had  employed 
for  the  defense  speaking  to  some  one  very  earnestly. 

"  I'm  not  to  blame,"  said  the  voice.  4<  She  snatched  the  paper  out 
of  my  hand  before  I  was  aware  of  her." 

"  Do  you  want  it  back  ?"  asked  the  voice  of  Miss  Meadowcroft. 

"  No ;  it's  only  a  copy.  If  keeping  it  will  help  to  quiet  her,  let 
her  keep  it  by  all  means.  Good-evening." 

Saying  these  last  words,  the  lawyer  approached  me  on  his  way 
out  of  the  house.  I  stopped  him  without  ceremony ;  I  felt  an  un- 
governable curiosity  to  know  more. 

"  Who  snatched  the  paper  out  of  your  hand  ?"  I  asked,  bluntly. 

The  lawyer  started.  I  had  taken  him  by  surprise.  The  instinct 
of  professional  reticence  made  him  pause  before  he  answered  me. 

In  the  brief  interval  of  silence,  Miss  Meadowcroft  replied  to  my 
question  from  the  other  end  of  the  hall. 

u  Naomi  Colebrook  snatched  the  paper  out  of  his  hand." 

"What  paper '." 

A  door  opened  softly  behind  me.  Naomi  herself  appeared  on  the 
threshold;  Naomi  herself  answered  my  question. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  whispered.     "  Come  in  here." 


404  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

One  candle  only  was  burning  in  the  room.  I  looked  at  her  by  the 
dim  light.  My  resolution  to  return  to  England  instantly  became 
one  of  the  lost  ideas  of  my  life. 

"  Good  God !"  I  exclaimed,  "  what  has  happened  now  ?" 

She  handed  me  the  paper  which  she  had  taken  from  the  lawyer's 
hand. 

The  "  copy  "  to  which  he  had  referred  was  a  copy  of  the  written 
confession  of  Silas  Meadowcroft  on  his  return  to  prison.  He  ac- 
cused his  brother  Ambrose  of  the  murder  of  John  Jago.  He  de- 
clared on  his  oath  that  he  had  seen  his  brother  Ambrose  commit 
the  crime. 

In  the  popular  phrase,  I  could  "  hardly  believe  my  own  eyes."  I 
read  the  last  sentences  of  the  confession  for  the  second  time : 

" I  heard  their  voices  at  the  limekiln.     They  were  having 

words  about  Cousin  Naomi.  I  ran  to  the  place  to  part  them.  I 
was  not  in  time.  I  saw  Ambrose  strike  the  deceased  a  terrible 
blow  on  the  head  with  his  (Ambrose's)  heavy  stick.  The  deceased 
dropped  without  a  cry.  I  put  my  hand  on  his  heart.  He  was 
dead.  I  was  horribly  frightened.  Ambrose  threatened  to  kill  me 
next  if  I  said  a  word  to  any  living  soul.  He  took  up  the  body 
and  cast  it  into  the  quicklime,  and  threw  the  stick  in  after  It.  We 
went  on  together  to  the  wood.  We  sat  down  on  a  felled  tree  out- 
side the  wood.  Ambrose  made  up  the  story  that  we  were  to  tell  if 
what  he  had  done  was  found  out.  He  made  me  repeat  it  after  him, 
like  a  lesson.  We  were  still  at  it  when  Cousin  Naomi  and  Mr.  Le- 
frank  came  up  to  us.  They  know  the  rest.  This,  on  my  oath,  is  a 
true  confession.  I  make  it  of  my  own  free-will,  repenting  me  sin- 
cerely that  I  did  not  make  it  before. 

(Signed)  "  SILAS  MEADOWCKOFT." 

I  laid  down  the  paper,  and  looked  at  Naomi  once  more.  She 
spoke  to  me  with  a  strange  composure.  Immovable  determination 
was  in  her  eye ;  immovable  determination  was  in  her  voice. 

"  Silas  has  lied  away  his  brother's  life  to  save  himself,"  she  said. 
"  I  see  cowardly  falsehood  and  cowardly  cruelty  in  every  line  on 
that  paper.  Ambrose  is  innocent,  and  the  time  has  come  to  prove 
it." 

"  You  forget,"  I  said,  "  that  we  have  just  failed  to  prove  it." 

"  John  Jago  is  alive,  in  hiding  from  us  and  from  all  who  know 
him,"  she  went  on.  "  Help  me,  friend  Lefrank,  to  advertise  for  him 
in  the  newspapers." 

I  drew  back  from  her  in  speechless  distress.  I  own  I  believed 
that  the  new  misery  which  had  fallen  on  her  had  affected  her  brain. 

"  You  don't  believe  it,"  she  said.    "  Shut  the  door." 


THE    DEAD   ALIVE.  405 

I  obeyed  her.  She  seated  herself,  and  pointed  to  a  chair  near 
her. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  proceeded.  "  I  am  going  to  do  a  wrong  thing ; 
but  there  is  no  help  for  it.  I  am  going  to  break  a  sacred  promise. 
You  remember  that  moonlight  night  when  I  met  him  on  the  gar- 
den-walk ?" 

"  John  Jago  ?" 

"  Yes.  Now  listen.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  passed  between 
John  Jago  and  me." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   ADVERTISEMENT. 

I  WAITED  in  silence  for  the  disclosure  that  was  now  to  come. 
Naomi  began  by  asking  me  a  question. 

"  You  remember  when  we  went  to  see  Ambrose  in  the  prison  ?" 
she  said. 

44  Perfectly." 

44  Ambrose  told  us  of  something  which  his  villain  of  a  brother  said 
of  John  Jago  and  me.  Do  you  remember  what  it  was  ?" 

I  remembered  perfectly.  Silas  had  said, ''  John  Jago  is  too  sweet 
on  Naomi  not  to  come  back." 

"  That's  so,"  Naomi  remarked  when  I  had  repeated  the  words. 
44 1  couldn't  help  starting  when  I  heard  what  Silas  had  said ;  and  I 
thought  you  noticed  me." 

41 1  did  notice  you." 

44  Did  you  wonder  what  it  meant  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I'll  tell  you.  It  meant  this :  What  Silas  Meadowcroft  said  to 
his  brother  of  John  Jago  was  what  I  myself  was  thinking  of  John 
Jago  at  that  very  moment.  It  startled  me  to  find  my  own  thought 
in  a  man's  mind  spoken  for  me  by  a  man.  I  am  the  person,  sir,  who 
has  driven  John  Jago  away  from  Morwick  Farm ;  and  I  am  the  per- 
son who  can  and  will  bring  him  back  again." 

There  was  something  in  her  manner,  more  than  in  her  words, 
which  let  the  light  in  suddenly  on  my  mind. 

"You  have  told  me  the  secret,"  I  said.  "John  Jago  is  in  love 
with  you." 

"  Mad  about  me  !"  she  rejoined,  dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper. 
"  Stark,  staring  mad  ! — that's  the  only  word  for  him.  After  we  had 
taken  a  few  turns  on  the  gravel-walk,  he  suddenly  broke  out  like  a 
man  beside  himself.  He  fell  down  on  his  knees ;  he  kissed  my 
gown,  he  kissed  my  feet ;  he  sobbed  and  cried  for  love  of  me.  I'm 

17* 


406  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

not  badly  off  for  courage,  sir,  considering  I'm  a  woman.  No  man, 
that  I  can  call  to  mind,  ever  really  scared  me  before.  But  I  own 
John  Jago  frightened  me ;  oh  my  !  he  did  frighten  me !  My  heart 
was  in  my  mouth,  and  my  knees  shook  under  me.  I  begged  and 
prayed  of  him  to  get  up  and  go  away.  No;  there  he  knelt,  and 
held  by  the  skirt  of  my  gown.  The  words  poured  out  from  him 
like  —  well,  like  nothing  I  can  think  of  but  water  from  a  pump. 
His  happiness  and  his  life,  and  his  hopes  in  earth  and  heaven,  and 
Lord  only  knows  what  besides,  all  depended,  he  said,  on  a  word 
from  me.  I  plucked  up  spirit  enough  at  that  to  remind  him  that  I 
was  promised  to  Ambrose.  '  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,'  I  said,  '  to  own  that  you're  wicked  enough  to  love  me 
when  you  know  I  am  promised  to  another  man !'  When  I  spoke 
to  him,  he  took  a  new  turn  ;  he  began  abusing  Ambrose.  That 
straightened  me  up.  I  snatched  my  gown  out  of  his  hand,  and  I 
gave  him  my  whole  mind.  '  I  hate  you  !'  I  said.  '  Even  if  I  wasn't 
promised  to  Ambrose,  I  wouldn't  marry  you — no !  not  if  there  wasn't 
another  man  left  in  the  world  to  ask  me.  I  hate  you,  Mr.  Jago ! 
I  hate  you!'  He  saw  I  was  in  earnest  at  last.  He  got  up  from 
my  feet,  and  he  settled  down  quiet  again,  all  on  a  sudden.  'You 
have  said  enough '  (that  was  how  he  answered  me).  '  You  have 
broken  my  life.  I  have  no  hopes  and  no  prospects  now.  I  had 
a  pride  in  the  farm,  miss,  and  a  pride  in  my  work ;  I  bore  with 
your  brutish  cousins'  hatred  of  me ;  I  was  faithful  to  Mr.  Mead- 
owcroft's  interests;  all  for  your  sake,  Naomi  Colebrook — all  for 
your  sake !  I  have  done  with  it  now;  I  have  done  with  my  life  at 
the  farm.  You  will  never  be  troubled  with  me  again.  I  am  going 
away,  as  the  dumb  creatures  go  when  they  are  sick,  to  hide  myself 
in  a  corner,  and  die.  Do  me  one  last  favor.  Don't  make  me  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  whole  neighborhood.  I  can't  bear  that ;  it 
maddens  me  only  to  think  of  it.  Give  me  your  promise  never  to 
tell  any  living  soul  what  I  have  said  to  you  to-night — your  sacred 
promise  to  the  man  whose  life  you  have  broken !'  I  did  as  he  bade 
me ;  I  gave  him  my  sacred  promise  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes.  Yes, 
that  is  so.  After  telling  him  I  hated  him  (and  I  did  hate  him),  I 
cried  over  his  misery ;  I  did  !  Mercy,  what  fools  women  are !  What 
is  the  horrid  perversity,  sir,  which  makes  us  always  ready  to  pity 
the  men  ?  He  held  out  his  hand  to  me ;  and  he  said,  '  Good-bye 
forever !'  and  I  pitied  him.  I  said,  '  I'll  shake  hands  with  you  if 
you  will  give  me  your  promise  in  exchange  for  mine.  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  leave  the  farm.  What  will  my  uncle  do  if  you  go  away? 
Stay  here,  and  be  friends  with  me,  and  forget  and  forgive,  Mr. 
John.'  He  gave  me  his  promise  (he  can  refuse  me  nothing) ;  and 
he  gave  it  again  when  I  saw  him  again  the  next  morning.  Yes,  I'll 
do  him  justice,  though  I  do  hate  him !  I  believe  he  honestly  meant 


THE    DEAD   ALIVE.  407 

to  keep  his  word  as  long  as  my  eye  was  on  him.  It  was  only  when 
he  was  left  to  himself  that  the  Devil  tempted  him  to  break  his 
promise  and  leave  the  farm.  I  was  brought  up  to  believe  in  the 
Devil,  Mr.  Lefrank  ;  and  I  find  it  explains  many  things.  It  explains 
John  Jago.  Only  let  me  find  out  where  he  has  gone,  and  I'll  en- 
gage he  shall  come  back  and  clear  Ambrose  of  the  suspicion  which 
his  vile  brother  has  cast  on  him.  Here  is  the  pen  all  ready  for  you. 
Advertise  for  him,  friend  Lefrank;  and  do  it  right  away,  for  my 
sake !" 

I  let  her  run  on,  without  attempting  to  dispute  her  conclusions, 
until  she  could  say  no  more.  When  she  put  the  pen  into  my  hand, 
I  began  the  composition  of  the  advertisement  as  obediently  as  if  I, 
too,  believed  that  John  Jago  was  a  living  man. 

In  the  case  of  any  one  else,  I  should  have  openly  acknowledged 
that  my  own  convictions  remained  unshaken.  If  no  quarrel  had 
taken  place  at  the  limekiln,  I  should  have  been  quite  ready,  as  I 
viewed  the  case,  to  believe  that  John  Jago's  disappearance  was 
referable  to  the  terrible  disappointment  which  Naomi  had  inflicted 
on  him.  The  same  morbid  dread  of  ridicule  which  had  led  him  to 
assert  that  he  cared  nothing  for  Naomi,  when  he  and  Silas  had 
quarreled  under  my  bedroom  window,  might  also  have  impelled  him 
to  withdraw  himself  secretly  and  suddenly  from  the  scene  of  his  dis- 
comforture.  But  to  ask  me  t6  belieye,  after  what  had  happened  at 
the  limekiln,  that  he  was  still  living,  was  to  ask  me  to  take  Ambrose 
Meadowcroffs  statement  for  granted  as  a  true  statement  of  facts. 

I  had  refused  to  do  this  from  the  first;  and  I  still  persisted  in 
taking  that  course.  If  I  had  been  called  upon  to  decide  the  balance 
of  probability  between  the  narrative  related  by  Ambrose  in  his  de- 
fense and  the  narrative  related  by  Silas  in  his  confession,  I  must 
have  owned,  no  matter  how  unwillingly,  that  the  confession  was,  to 
my  mind,  the  least  incredible  story  of  the  two. 

Could  I  say  this  to  Naomi  ?  I  would  have  written  fifty  advertise- 
ments inquiring  for  John  Jago  rather  than  say  it ;  and  you  would 
have  done  the  same,  if  you  had  been  as  fond  of  her  as  I  was. 

I  drew  out  the  advertisement,  for  insertion  in  The  iforwick  Mer- 
cury, in  these  terms : 

MURDER. — Printers  of  newspapers  throughout  the  United  States  are  de- 
sired to  publish  that  Ambrose  Meadowcroft  and  Silas  Meadoweroft,  of  Mor- 
wick  Farm,  Morwick  County,  are  committed  for  trial  on  the  charge  of  mur- 
dering John  Jago,  now  missing  from  the  farm  and  from  the  neighborhood. 
Any  person  who  can  give  information  of  the  existence  of  said  Jago  may  save 
the  lives  of  two  wrongly-accused  men  by  making  immediate  communica- 
tion. Jago  is  about  five  feet  four  inches  high.  He  is  spare  and  wiry;  his 
complexion  is  extremely  pale ;  his  eyes  are  dark,  and  v«-ry  bright  and  rest- 
less. The  lower  part  of  his  face  is  concealed  by  a  thick  black  beard  and 
mustache.  The  whole  appearance  of  the  man  is  wild  and  flighty. 


408  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

I  added  the  date  and  the  address.  That  evening  a  servant  was 
sent  on  horseback  to  Narrabee  to  procure  the  insertion  of  the  ad- 
vertisement in  the  next  issue  of  the  newspaper. 

When  we  parted  that  night,  Naomi  looked  almost  like  her  bright- 
er and  happier  self.  Now  that  the  advertisement  was  on  its  way  to 
the  printing-office,  she  was  more  than  sanguine :  she  was  certain  of 
the  result. 

"  You  don't  know  how  you  have  comforted  me,"  she  said,  in  her 
frank,  warm-hearted  way,  when  we  parted  for  the  night.  "  All  the 
newspapers  will  copy  it,  and  we  shall  hear  of  John  Jago  before  the 
week  is  out."  She  turned  to  go,  and  came  back  again  to  me.  "  I 
will  never  forgive  Silas  for  writing  that  confession !"  she  whispered 
in  my  ear.  "  If  he  ever  lives  under  the  same  roof  with  Ambrose 
again,  I  —  well,  I  believe  I  wouldn't  marry  Ambrose  if  he  did! 
There !" 

She  left  me.  Through  the  wakeful  hours  of  the  night  my  mind 
dwelt  on  her  last  words.  That  she  should  contemplate,  under  any 
circumstances,  even  the  bare  possibility  of  not  marrying  Ambrose, 
was,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  a  direct  encouragement  to  certain  hopes 
which  I  had  already  begun  to  form  in  secret.  The  next  day's  mail 
brought  me  a  letter  on  business.  My  clerk  wrote  to  inquire  if  there 
was  any  chance  of  my  returning  to  England  in  time  to  appear  in 
court  at  the  opening  of  next  law  term.  I  answered,  without  hesita- 
tion, "It  is  still  impossible  for  me  to  fix  the  date  of  my  return." 
Naomi  was  in  the  room  while  I  was  writing.  How  would  she  have 
answered,  I  wonder,  if  I  had  told  her  the  truth,  and  said,  "  You  are 
responsible  for  this  letter  ?" 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  SHERIFF  AND  THE  GOVERNOR. 

THE  question  of  time  was  now  a  serious  question  at  Morwick 
Farm.  In  six  weeks  the  court  for  the  trial  of  criminal  cases  was  to 
be  opened  at  Narrabee. 

During  this  interval  no  new  event  of  any  importance  occurred. 

Many  idle  letters  reached  us  relating  to  the  advertisement  for 
John  Jago;  but  no  positive  information  was  received.  Not  the 
slightest  trace  of  the  lost  man  turned  up ;  not  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  was  cast  on  the  assertion  of  the  prosecution,  that  his  body 
had  been  destroyed  in  the  kiln.  Silas  Meadowcroft  held  firmly  to 
the  horrible  confession  that  he  had  made.  His  brother  Ambrose, 
with  equal  resolution,  asserted  his  innocence,  and  reiterated  the 
statement  which  he  had  already  advanced.  At  regular  periods  I  ac- 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  409 

companied  Naomi  to  visit  him  in  the  prison.  As  the  day  appoint- 
ed for  the  opening  of  the  court  approached,  he  seemed  to  falter  a 
little  in  his  resolution ;  his  manner  became  restless ;  and  he  grew 
irritably  suspicious  about  the  merest  trifles.  This  change  did  not 
necessarily  imply  the  consciousness  of  guilt :  it  might  merely  have 
indicated  natural  nervoms  agitation  as  the  time  for  the  trial  drew 
near.  Naomi  noticed  the  alteration  in  her  lover.  It  greatly  in- 
creased her  anxiety,  though  it  never  shook  her  confidence  in  Am- 
brose. Except  at  meal-times,  I  was  left,  during  the  period  of  which 
I  am  now  writing,  almost  constantly  alone  with  the  charming  Ameri- 
can girl.  Miss  Meadowcroft  searched  the  newspapers  for  tidings  of 
the  living  John  Jago  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room.  Mr.  Mead- 
owcroft would  see  nobody  but  his  daughter  and  his  doctor,  and  oc- 
casionally one  or  two  old  friends.  I  have  since  had  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  Naomi,  in  these  days  of  our  intimate  association,  discover- 
ed the  true  nature  of  the  feeling  with  which  she  had  inspired  me. 
But  she  kept  her  secret.  Her  manner  toward  me  steadily  remained 
the  manner  of  a  sister;  she  never  overstepped  by  a  hair -breadth 
the  safe  limits  of  the  character  that  she  had  assumed. 

The  sittings  of  the  court  began.  After  hearing  the  evidence,  and 
examining  the  confession  of  Silas  Mendowcroft,  the  grand  jury 
found  a  true  bill  against  both  the  prisoners.  The  day  appointed  for 
their  trial  was  the  first  day  in  the  new  week. 

I  had  carefully  prepared  Naomi's  mind  for  the  decision  of  the 
grand  jury.  She  bore  the  new  blow  bravely. 

"  If  you  are  not  tired  of  it,"  she  said,  "  come  with  me  to  the  pris- 
on to-morrow.  Ambrose  will  need  a  little  comfort  by  that  time." 
She  paused,  and  looked  at  the  day's  letters  lying  on  the  table. 
"  Still  not  a  word  about  John  Jago,"  she  said.  "And  all  the  papers 
have  copied  the  advertisement.  I  felt  so  sure  we  should  hear  of 
him  long  before  this !" 

"  Do  you  still  feel  sure  that  he  is  living  ?"  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"  I  am  as  certain  of  it  as  ever,"  she  replied,  firmly.  "  He  is  some- 
where in  hiding ;  perhaps  he  is  in  disguise.  Suppose  we  know  no 
more  of  him  than  we  know  now  when  the  trial  begins  ?  Suppose 
the  jury —  She  stopped,  shuddering.  Death — shameful  death  on 
the  scaffold — might  be  the  terrible  result  of  the  consultation  of  the 
jury.  "We  have  waited  for  news  to  come  to  us  long  enough,"  Na- 
omi resumed.  "  We  must  find  the  tracks  of  John  Jago  for  our- 
selves. There  is  a  week  yet  before  the  trial  begins.  Who  will  help 
me  to  make  inquiries?  Will  you  be  the  man,  friend  Lefrank  '." 

It  is  needless  to  add  (though  I  knew  nothing  would  come  of  it) 
that  I  consented  to  be  the  man. 

We  arranged  to  apply  that  day  for  the  order  of  admission  to  the 
prison,  and,  having  seen  Ambrose,  to  devote  ourselves  immediately 


410  THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 

to  the  contemplated  search.  How  that  search  was  to  be  conducted 
was  more  than  I  could  tell,  and  more  than  Naomi  could  tell.  We 
were  to  begin  by  applying  to  the  police  to  help  us  to  find  John 
Jago,  and  we  were  then  to  be  guided  by  circumstances.  Was  there 
ever  a  more  hopeless  programme  than  this  ? 

"  Circumstances "  declared  themselves  against  us  at  starting.  I 
applied,  as  usual,  for  the  order  of  admission  to  the  prison,  and  the 
order  was  for  the  first  time  refused ;  no  reason  being  assigned  by  the 
persons  in  authority  for  taking  this  course.  Inquire  as  I  might,  the 
only  answer  given  was,  "  not  to-day." 

At  Naomi's  suggestion,  we  went  to  the  prison  to  seek  the  expla- 
nation which  was  refused  to  us  at  the  office.  The  jailer  on  duty  at 
the  outer  gate  was  one  of  Naomi's  many  admirers.  He  solved  the 
mystery  cautiously  in  a  whisper.  The  sheriff  and  the  governor  of 
the  prison  were  then  speaking  privately  with  Ambrose  Meadow- 
croft  in  his  cell ;  they  had  expressly  directed  that  no  persons  should 
be  admitted  to  see  the  prisoner  that  day  but  themselves. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  We  returned,  wondering,  to  the  farm.  There 
Naomi,  speaking  by  chance  to  one  of  the  female  servants,  made  cer- 
tain discoveries. 

Early  that  morning  the  sheriff  had  been  brought  to  Morwick  by 
an  old  friend  of  the  Meadowcrofts.  A  long  interview  had  been 
held  between  Mr.  Meadowcroft  and  his  daughter  and  the  official 
personage  introduced  by  the  friend.  Leaving  the  farm,  the  sheriff 
had  gone  straight  to  the  prison,  and  had  proceeded  with  the  gov- 
ernor to  visit  Ambrose  in  his  cell.  Was  some  potent  influence  be- 
irtg  brought  privately  to  bear  on  Ambrose  ?  Appearances  certainly 
suggested  that  inquiry.  Supposing  the  influence  to  have  been  real- 
ly exerted,  the  next  question  followed,  What  was  the  object  in  view  ? 
We  could  only  wait  and  see. 

Our  patience  was  not  severely  tried.  The  event  of  the  next  day 
enlightened  us  in  a  very  unexpected  manner.  Before  noon,  the 
neighbors  brought  startling  news  from  the  prison  to  the  farm. 

Ambrose  Meadowcroft  had  confessed  himself  to  be  the  murderer 
of  John  Jago !  He  had  signed  the  confession  in  the  presence  of 
the  sheriff  and  the  governor  on  that  very  day  ! 

I  saw  the  document.  It  is  needless  to  reproduce  it  here.  In  sub- 
stance, Ambrose  confessed  what  Silas  had  confessed ;  claiming,  how- 
ever, to  have  only  struck  Jago  under  intolerable  provocation,  so  as 
to  reduce  the  nature  of  his  offense  against  the  law  from  murder  to 
manslaughter.  Was  the  confession  really  the  true  statement  of  what 
had  taken  place  ?  or  Had  the  sheriff  and  the  governor,  acting  in  the 
interests  of  the  family  name,  persuaded  Ambrose  to  try  this  des- 
perate means  of  escaping  the  ignominy  of  death  on  the  scaffold  ? 
The  sheriff  and  the  governor  preserved  impenetrable  silence  until 


TUB    DEAD   ALIVE.  411 

the  pressure  put  on  them  judicially  at  the  trial  obliged  them  to 
speak. 

Who  was  to  tell  Naomi  of  this  last  and  saddest  of  all  the  calam- 
ities which  had  fallen  on  her  ?  Knowing  how  I  loved  her  in  secret, 
I  felt  an  invincible  reluctance  to  be  the  person  who  revealed  Am- 
brose MeadowcrofVs  degradation  to  his  betrothed  wife.  Had  any 
other  member  of  the  family  told  her  what  had  happened  ?  The  law- 
yer was  able  to  answer  me ;  Miss  Meadowcroft  had  told  her. 

I  was  shocked  when  I  heard  it.  Miss  Meadowcroft  was  the  last 
person  in  the  house  to  spare  the  poor  girl ;  Miss  Meadowcroft  would 
make  the  hard  tidings  doubly  terrible  to  bear  in  the  telling.  I  tried 
to  find  Naomi,  without  success.  She  had  been  always  accessible  at 
other  times.  Was  she  hiding  herself  from  me  now  ?  The  idea  oc- 
curred to  me  as  I  was  descending  the  stairs  after  vainly  knocking 
it  the  door  of  her  room.  I  was  determined  to  see  her.  I  waited  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  ascended  the  stairs  again  suddenly.  On  the 
landing  I  met  her,  just  leaving  her  room. 

She  tried  to  run  back.  I  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  detained 
her.  With  her  free  hand  she  held  her  handkerchief  over  her  face 
so  as  to  hide  it  from  me. 

"  You  once  told  me  I  had  comforted  you,"  I  said  to  her,  gently. 
"  Won't  you  let  me  comfort  you  now  ?" 

3he  still  struggled  to  get  away,  and  still  kept  her  head  turned 
from  me. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  ashamed  to  look  you  in  the  face?"  she 
siid.  in  low,  broken  tones.  "  Let  me  go." 

I  still  persisted  in  trying  to  soothe  her.  I  drew  her  to  the  win- 
dow-seat. I  eaid  I  would  wait  until  she  was  able  to  speak  to  me. 

She  dropped  on  the  seat,  and  wrung  her  hands  on  her  lap.  Her 
downcast  eyes  still  obstinately  avoided  meeting  mine. 

"  Oh  !"  «he  said  to  herself,  "  what  madness  possessed  me  ?  Is  it 
p<>-vil>le  that  I  ever  disgraced  myself  by  loving  Ambrose  Meadow- 
rrott  '"'  She  shuddered  as  the  idea  found  its  way  to  expression  on 
her  lips.  The  tears  rolled  slowly  over  her  cheeks.  "  Don't  despise 
inc.  Mr.  Lefrank  !"  she  said,  faintly. 

I  tried,  honestly  tried,  to  put  the  confession  before  her  in  its  least 
unfavorable  light. 

"  His  resolution  has  given  way,"  I  said.  "  He  has  done  this,  de- 
spairing of  proving  his  innocence,  in  terror  of  the  scaffold." 

She  rose,  with  an  angry  stamp  of  her  foot.  She  turned  her  face 
on  me  with  the  deep-red  flush  of  shame  in  it,  and  the  big  tears  glis- 
tening in  her  eyes. 

"  No  more  of  him  !"  she  said,  sternly.  "  If  he  is  not  a  murderer, 
what  else  is  he  ?  A  liar  and  a  coward  !  In  which  of  his  characters 
does  he  disgrace  me  most  ?  I  have  done  with  him  forever  1  I  will 


412  THE   DEAD   ALIVE. 

never  speak  to  him  again!"  She  pushed  me  furiously  away  from 
her;  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  her  own  door;  stopped,  and 
came  back  to  me.  The  generous  nature  of  the  girl  spoke  in  her 
next  words.  "  I  am  not  ungrateful  to  you,  friend  Lefrank.  A  wom- 
an in  my  place  is  only  a  woman  ;  and,  when  she  is  shamed  as  I  am, 
she  feels  it  very  bitterly.  Give  me  your  hand !  God  bless  you  !" 

She  put  my  hand  to  her  lips  before  I  was  aware  of  her,  and  kissed 
it,  and  ran  back  into  her  room. 

I  sat  down  on  the  place  which  she  had  occupied.  She  had  look- 
ed at  me  for  one  moment  when  she  kissed  my  hand.  I  forgot  Am- 
brose and  his  confession ;  I  forgot  the  coming  trial ;  I  forgot  my 
professional  duties  and  my  English  friends.  There  I  sat,  in  a  fool's 
elysium  of  my  own  making,  with  absolutely  nothing  in  my  mind 
but  the  picture  of  Naomi's  face  at  the  moment  when  she  had  last 
looked  at  me ! 

I  have  already  mentioned  that  I  was  in  love  with  her.  I  merely 
add  this  to  satisfy  you  that  I  tell  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  WINDOW. 

Miss  MEADOWCROFT  and  I  were  the  only  representatives  of  the 
family  at  the  farm  who  attended  the  trial.  We  went  separately  to 
Narrabee.  Excepting  the  ordinary  greetings  at  morning  and  night, 
Miss  Meadowcroft  had  not  said  one  word  to  me  since  the  time  when 
I  had  told  her  that  I  did  not  believe  John  Jago  to  be  a  living  man. 

I  have  purposely  abstained  from  encumbering  my  narrative  with 
legal  details.  I  now  propose  to  state  the  nature  of  the  defense  in 
the  briefest  outline  only. 

We  insisted  on  making  both  the  prisoners  plead  not  guilty.  This 
done,  we  took  an  objection  to  the  legality  of  the  proceedings  at 
starting.  We  appealed  to  the  old  English  law,  that  there  should  be 
no  conviction  for  murder  until  the  body  of  the  murdered  person  was 
found,  or  proof  of  its  destruction  obtained  beyond  a  doubt.  We  de- 
nied that  sufficient  proof  had  been  obtained  in  the  case  now  before 
the  court. 

The  judges  consulted,  and  decided  that  the  trial  should  go  on. 

We  took  our  next  objection  when  the  confessions  were  produced 
in  evidence.  We  declared  that  they  had  been  extorted  by  terror, 
or  by  undue  influence ;  and  we  pointed  out  certain  minor  particu- 
lars in  which  the  two  confessions  failed  to  corroborate  each  other. 
For  the  rest,  our  defense  on  this  occasion  was,  as  to  essentials,  what 
our  defense  had  been  at  the  inquiry  before  the  magistrate.  Once 


THE   DEAD   ALIVE.  413 

more  the  judges  consulted,  and  once  more  they  overruled  our  ob- 
jection. The  confessions  were  admitted  in  evidence. 

On  their  side,  the  prosecution  produced  one  new  witness  in  sup- 
port of  their  case.  It  is  needless  to  waste  time  in  recapitulating  his 
evidence.  He  contradicted  himself  gravely  on  cross-examination. 
We  showed  plainly,  and  after  investigation  proved,  that  he  was  not 
to  be  believed  on  his  oath. 

The  chief-justice  summed  up. 

He  charged,  in  relation  to  the  confessions,  that  no  weight  should 
be  attached  to  a  confession  incited  by  hope  or  fear ;  and  he  left  it  to 
the  jury  to  determine  whether  the  confessions  in  this  case  had  been 
so  influenced.  In  the  course  of  the  trial,  it  had  been  shown  for  the 
defense  that  the  sheriff  and  the  governor  of  the  prison  had  told 
Ambrose,  with  his  father's  knowledge  and  sanction,  that  the  case 
was  clearly  against  him ;  that  the  only  chance  of  sparing  his  family 
the  disgrace  of  his  death  by  public  execution  lay  in  making  a  con- 
fession ;  and  that  they  would  do  their  best,  if  he  did  confess,  to  have 
his  sentence  commuted  to  transportation  for  life.  As  for  Silas,  he 
was  proved  to  have  been  beside  himself  with  terror  when  he  made 
his  abominable  charge  against  his  brother.  We  had  vainly  trusted 
to  the  evidence  on  these  two  points  to  induce  the  court  to  reject 
the  confessions ;  and  we  were  destined  to  be  once  more  disappoint- 
ed in  anticipating  that  the  same  evidence  would  influence  the  ver- 
dict of  the  jury  on  the  side  of  mercy.  After  an  absence  of  an  hour, 
they  returned  into  court  with  a  verdict  of  "  Guilty  "  against  both 
the  prisoners. 

Being  asked  in  due  form  if  they  had  any  thing  to  say  in  mitiga- 
tion of  their  sentence,  Ambrose  and  Silas  solemnly  declared  their 
innocence,  and  publicly  acknowledged  that  their  respective  confes- 
sions had  been  wrung  from  them  by  the  hope  of  escaping  the  hang- 
man's hands.  This  statement  was  not  noticed  by  the  bench.  The 
prisoners  were  both  sentenced  to  death. 

On  my  return  to  the  farm,  I  did  not  sec  Naomi.  Miss  Meadow- 
croft  informed  her  of  the  result  of  the  trial.  Half  an  hour  later,  one 
of  the  women-servants  handed  to  me  an  envelope  bearing  my  name 
on  it  in  Naomi's  handwriting. 

The  envelope  inclosed  a  letter,  and  with  it  a  slip  of  paper  on 
which  Naomi  had  hurriedly  written  these  words:  "For  God's  sake, 
read  the  letter  I  send  to  you,  and  do  something  about  it  immedi- 
ately !" 

I  looked  at  the  letter.  It  assumed  to  be  written  by  a  gentleman 
in  New  York.  Only  the  day  before,  he  had,  by  the  merest  acci- 
dent, seen  the  advertisement  for  John  Jago  cut  out  of  a  newspaper 
and  pasted  into  a  book  of  "curiosities"  kept  by  a  friend.  Upon 
this  he  wrote  to  Morwick  Farm  to  say  that  he  had  seen  a  man  ex- 


414  THE   DEAD  ALIVB. 

actly  answering  to  the  description  of  John  Jago,  but  bearing  an- 
other name,  working  as  a  clerk  in  a  merchant's  office  in  Jersey  City. 
Having  time  to  spare  before  the  mail  went  out,  he  had  returned  to 
the  office  to  take  another  look  at  the  man  before  he  posted  his  let- 
ter. To  his  surprise,  he  was  informed  that  the  clerk  had  not  ap- 
peared at  his  desk  that  day.  His  employer  had  sent  to  his  lodg- 
ings, and  had  been  informed  that  he  had  suddenly  packed  up  his 
hand-bag  after  reading  the  newspaper  at  breakfast ;  had  paid  his 
rent  honestly,  and  had  gone  away,  nobody  knew  where ! 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  I  read  these  lines.  I  had  time 
for  reflection  before  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  act. 

Assuming  the  letter  to  be  genuine,  and  adopting  Naomi's  expla- 
nation of  the  motive  which  had  led  John  Jago  to  absent  himself  se- 
cretly from  the  farm,  I  reached  the  conclusion  that  the  search  for 
him  might  be  usefully  limited  to  Narrabee  and  to  the  surrounding 
neighborhood. 

The  newspaper  at  his  breakfast  had  no  doubt  given  him  his  first 
information  of  the  "  finding  "  of  the  grand  jury,  and  of  the  trial  to 
follow.  It  was  in  my  experience  of  human  nature  that  he  should 
venture  back  to  Narrabee  under  these  circumstances,  and  under  the 
influence  of  his  infatuation  for  Naomi.  More  than  this,  it  was  again 
in  my  experience,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  he  should  attempt  to  make 
the  critical  position  of  Ambrose  a  means  of  extorting  Naomi's  con- 
sent to  listen  favorably  to  his  suit.  Cruel  indifference  to  the  injury 
and  the  suffering  which  his  sudden  absence  might  inflict  on  others 
was  plainly  implied  in  his  secret  withdrawal  from  the  farm.  The 
same  cruel  indifference,  pushed  to  a  further  extreme,  might  well 
lead  him  to  press  his  proposals  privately  on  Naomi,  and  to  fix  her 
acceptance  of  them  as  the  price  to  be  paid  for  saving  her  cousin's 
life. 

To  these  conclusions  I  arrived  after  much  thinking.  I  had  de- 
termined, on  Naomi's  account,  to  clear  the  matter  up ;  but  it  is  only 
candid  to  add,  that  my  doubts  of  John  Jago's  existence  remained 
unshaken  by  the  letter.  I  believed  it  to  be  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  heartless  and  stupid  "  hoax." 

The  striking  of  the  hall-clock  roused  me  from  my  meditations. 
I  counted  the  strokes — midnight ! 

I  rose  to  go  up  to  my  room.  Every  body  else  in  the  farm  had 
retired  to  bed,  as  usual,  more  than  an  hour  since.  The  stillness  in 
the  house  was  breathless.  I  walked  softly,  by  instinct,  as  I  crossed 
the  room  to  look  out  at  the  night.  A  lovely  moonlight  met  my 
view ;  it  was  like  the  moonlight  on  the  fatal  evening  when  Naomi 
had  met  John  Jago  on  the  garden  walk. 

My  bedroom  candle  was  on  the  side-table ;  I  had  just  lighted  it. 


Till:    DEAD    Al.IVK.  415 

I  was  just  leaving  the  room,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and 
Naomi  herself  stood  before  me ! 

Recovering  the  first  shock  of  her  sudden  appearance,  I  saw  in- 
stantly in  her  eager  eyes,  in  her  deadly-pale  cheeks,  that  something 
serious  had  happened.  A  large  cloak  was  thrown  over  her ;  a  white 
handkerchief  was  tied  over  her  head.  Her  hair  was  in  disorder; 
she  had  evidently  just  risen  in  fear  and  in  haste  from  her  bed. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  I  asked,  advancing  to  meet  her. 

She  clung,  trembling  with  agitation,  to  my  arm. 

"  John  Jago !''  she  whispered. 

You  will  think  my  obstinacy  invincible.  I  could  hardly  believe 
it,  even  then ! 

"  Where  ?''  I  asked. 

"In  the  back  yard,"  she  replied,  "under  my  bedroom  window !" 

The  emergency  was  far  too  serious  to  allow  of  any  consideration 
for  the  small  proprieties  of  every-day  life. 

"  Let  me  see  him  !"  I  said. 

"  I  am  here  to  fetch  you,"  she  answered,  in  her  frank  and  fearless 
way.  "  Come  up  stairs  with  me." 

Her  room  was  on  the  first  floor  of  the  house,  and  was  the  only 
bedroom  which  looked  out  on  the  back  yard.  On  our  way  up  the 
stairs  she  told  me  what  had  happened. 

"  I  was  in  bed,"  she  said,  "  but  not  asleep,  when  I  heard  a  peb- 
ble strike  against  the  window-pane.  I  waited,  wondering  what  it 
meant.  Another  pcb'ile  was  thrown  against  the  glass.  So  far,' I 
was  surprised,  but  not  frightened.  I  got  up,  and  ran  to  the  window 
to  look  out.  There  was  John  Jago  looking  up  at  me  in  the  moon- 
light !" 

"  Did  he  see  you  ?" 

"Yes.  He  said,  '-Come  down  and  speak  to  me!  I  have  some- 
thing serious  to  say  to  you  !'  " 

"  Did  you  answer  him  ?" 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  fetch  my  breath,  I  said, '  Wait  a  little,'  and 
ran  down  stairs  to  you.  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

"Let  me  see  him,  and  I  will  tell  you." 

We  entered  her  room.  Keeping  cautiously  behind  the  window- 
curtain,  I  looked  out. 

There  he  was!  His  beard  and  mustache  were  shaved  off;  his 
hair  was  close  cut.  But  there  was  no  disguising  his  wild,  brown 
eyes,  or  the  peculiar  movement  of  his  spare,  wiry  figure,  as  he  walk- 
ed slowly  to  and  fro  in  the  moonlight  waiting  for  Naomi.  For  the 
moment,  my  «>\vn  'imitation  almost  overpowered  me  ;  I  had  so  firmly 
disbelieved  that  John  Jago  was  a  living  man ! 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  Naomi  repeated. 

"  la  the  door  of  the  dairy  open  ?"  I  asked. 


416  THE   DEAD   ALIVE. 

"No;  but  the  door  of  the  tool -house,  round  the  corner,  is  not 
locked." 

"  Very  good.  Show  yourself  at  the  window,  and  say  to  him,  '  I 
am  coming  directly.' " 

The  brave  girl  obeyed  me  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

There  had  been  no  doubt  about  his  eyes  and  his  gait ;  there  was 
no  doubt  now  about  his  voice,  as  he  answered  softly  from  below, 

"All  right!" 

"  Keep  him  talking  to  you  where  he  is  now,"  I  said  to  Naomi, 
"  until  I  have  time  to  get  round  by  the  other  way  to  the  tool-house. 
Then  pretend  to  be  fearful  of  discovery  at  the  dairy,  and  bring  him 
round  the  corner,  so  that  I  can  hear  him  behind  the  door." 

We  left  the  house  together,  and  separated  silently.  Naomi  fol- 
lowed my  instructions  with  a  woman's  quick  intelligence  where 
stratagems  are  concerned.  I  had  hardly  been  a  minute  in  the  tool- 
house  before  I  heard  him  speaking  to  Naomi  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door. 

The  first  words  which  I  caught  distinctly  related  to  his  motive 
for  secretly  leaving  the  farm.  Mortified  pride — doubly  mortified  by 
Naomi's  contemptuous  refusal,  and  by  the  personal  indignity  offered 
to  him  by  /jab.xse—  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  conduct  in  absenting 
himself  from  Morwick.  He  owned  that  he  had  seen  the  advertise- 
ment, and  that  it  had  actually  encouraged  him  to  keep  in  hiding ! 

"After  being  laughed  at  and  insulted  and  denied,  I  was  glad," 
said  the  miserable  wretch,  "  to  see  that  some  of  you  had  serious  rea- 
son to  wish  me  back  again.  It  rests  with  you,  Miss  Naomi,  to  keep 
me  here,  and  to  persuade  me  to  save  Ambrose  by  showing  myself 
and  owning  to  my  name." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  heard  Naomi  ask,  sternly. 

He  lowered  his  voice  ;  but  I  could  still  hear -him. 

"  Promise  you  will  marry  me,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  go  before  the 
magistrate  to-morrow,  and  show  him  that  I  am  a  living  man." 

"  Suppose  I  refuse  ?" 

"  In  that  case  you  will  lose  me  again,  and  none  of  you  will  find 
me  till  Ambrose  is  hanged." 

"  Are  you  villain  enough,  John  Jago,  to  mean  what  you  say  ?" 
asked  the  girl,  raising  her  voice. 

"  If  you  attempt  to  give  the  alarm,"  he  answered,  "  as  true  as 
God's  above  us,  you  will  feel  my  hand  on  your  throat !  It's  my 
turn  now,  miss ;  and  I  am  not  to  be  trifled  with.  Will  you  have 
me  for  your  husband — yes  or  no  ?" 

"  No  !"  she  answered,  loudly  and  firmly. 

I  burst  open  the  door,  and  seized  him  as  he  lifted  his  hand  on 
her.  He  had  not  suffered  from  the  nervous  derangement  which  had 
weakened  me,  and  he  was  the  stronger  man  of  the  two.  Naomi 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  417 

saved  my  life.  She  struck  up  his  pistol  as  he  pulled  it  out  of  his 
pocket  with  his  free  hand  and  presented  it  at  my  head.  The  bullet 
was  fired  into  the  air.  I  tripped  up  his  heels  at  the  same  moment. 
The  report  of  the  pistol  had  alarmed  the  house.  We  two  together 
kept  him  on  the  ground  until  help  arrived. 


CHAPTER 

THE    END    OF    IT. 

JOHN  JAGO  was  brought  before  the  magistrate,  and  John  Jago 
was  identified  the  next  day. 

The  lives  of  Ambrose  and  Silas  were,  of  course,  no  longer  in  peril, 
so  far  as  human  justice  was  concerned.  But  there  were  legal  delays 
to  be  encountered,  and  legal  formalities  to  be  observed,  before  the 
brothers  could  be  released  from  prison  in  the  characters  of  innocent 
men. 

During  the  interval  which  thus  elapsed,  certain  events  happened 
which  may  be  briefly  mentioned  here  before  I  close  my  narrative. 

Mr.  Meadowcroft  the  elder,  broken  by  the  suffering  which  he  had 
gone  through,  died  suddenly  of  a  rheumatic  affection  of  the  heart. 
A  codicil  attached  to  his  will  abundantly  justified  what  Naomi  had 
told  me  of  Miss  MeadowcrofVs  influence  over  her  father,  and  of  the 
end  she  had  in  view  in  exercising  it.  A  life  income  only  was  left 
to  Mr.  MeadowcrofVs  sons.  The  freehold  of  the  farm  was  bequeath- 
ed to  his  daughter,  with  the  testator's  recommendation  added,  that 
she  should  marry  his  "  best  and  dearest  friend,  Mr.  John  Jago." 

Armed  with  the  power  of  the  will,  the  heiress  of  Morwick  sent  an 
insolent  message  to  Naomi,  requesting  her  no  longer  to  consider 
herself  one  of  the  inmates  at  the  farm.  Miss  Meadowcroft,  it  should 
be  here  added,  positively  refused  to  believe  that  John  Jago  had 
ever  asked  Naomi  to  be  his  wife,  or  had  ever  threatened  her,  as  I 
had  heard  him  threaten  her,  if  she  refused.  She  accused  me,  as  she 
accused  Naomi,  of  trying  meanly  to  injure  John  Jago  in  her  estima- 
tion, out  of  hatred  toward  "  that  much-injured  man ;"  and  she  sent 
to  me,  as  she  had  sent  to  Naomi,  a  formal  notice  to  leave  the  house. 

We  two  banished  ones  met  the  same  day  in  the  hall,  with  our 
traveling-bags  in  our  hands. 

'•  We  are  turned  out  together,  friend  Lefrank,"  said  Naomi,  with 
her  quaintly-comical  smile.  "  You  will  go  back  to  England,  I  guess ; 
and  I  must  make  my  own  living  in  my  own  country.  Women  can 
get  employment  in  the  States  if  they  have  a  friend  to  speak  for  them. 
Where  shall  I  find  somebody  who  can  give  me  a  place  ?" 

I  saw  my  way  to  saying  the  right  word  at  the  right  moment. 


418  THE   DEAD   ALIVE. 

"  I  have  got  a  place  to  offer  you,"  I  replied. 

She  suspected  nothing,  so  far. 

"  That's  lucky,  sir,"  was  all  she  said.  "  Is  it  in  a  telegraph-office 
or  in  a  dry-goods  store  ?" 

I  astonished  rny  little  American  friend  by  taking  her  then  and 
there  in  my  arms,  and  giving  her  my  first  kiss. 

"  The  office  is  by  my  fireside,"  I  said ;  "  the  salary  is  any  thing  in 
reason  you  like  to  ask  me  for ;  and  the  place,  Naomi,  if  you  have 
no  objection  to  it,  is  the  place  of  my  wife," 

I  have  no  more  to  say,  except  that  years  have  passed  since  I 
spoke  those  words,  and  that  I  am  as  fond  of  Naomi  as  ever. 

Some  months  after  our  marriage,  Mrs.  Lefrank  wrote  to  a  friend 
at  Narrabee  for  news  of  what  was  going  on  at  the  farm.  The  an- 
swer informed  us  that  Ambrose  and  Silas  had  emigrated  to  New 
Zealand,  and  that  Miss  Meadowcroft  was  alone  at  Morwick  Farm. 
John  Jago  had  refused  to  marry  her.  John  Jago  had  disappeared 
again,  nobody  knew  where. 

NOTE  IN  CONCLUSION.— The  first  idea  of  this  little  story  was  suggested 
to  the  author  by  a  printed  account  of  a  trial  which  actually  took  place,  early 
in  the  present  century,  in  the  United  States.  The  published  narrative  of 
this  strange  case  is  entitled  "The  Trial,  Confessions,  and  Conviction  of 
Jesse  and  Stephen  Boom  for  the  Murder  of  Russell  Colvin,  and  the  Return 
of  the  Man  supposed  to  have  been  murdered.  By  Hon.  Leonard  Sargeant, 
Ex -Lieutenant -Governor  of  Vermont.  (Manchester,  Vermont,  Jmirnal 
Book  and  Job  Office,  1873.)"  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  add,  for  the  benefit 
of  incredulous  readers,  that  all  the  "improbable  events"  in  the  story  are 
matters  of  fact,  taken  from  the  printed  narrative.  Any  thing  which  "  looks 
like  truth"  is,  in  nine  cases  out  often,  the  invention  of  the  author.— W.  C. 


THE  FATAL  CRADLE 


THE  FATAL  CRADLE : 

OTHERWISE,  THE  HEART-RENDING  STORY  OF 
MR.  HEAVYSIDES. 


THERE  has  never  yet  been  discovered  a  man  with  a  grievance 
who  objected  to  mention  it.  I  am  no  exception  to  this  general  1m- 
111:111  rule.  I  have  got  a  grievance,  and  I  don't  object  to  mention  it. 
('•impose  your  spirits  to  hear  a  pathetic  story,  and  kindly  picture 
me  in  your  own  mind  as  a  baby  five  minutes  old. 

Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  I  am  ^oo  big  and  too  heavy  to 
lie  pictured  in  any  body's  mind  as  a  baby?  Perhaps  I  may  lx?— but 
don't  mention  my  weight  again,  if  you  please.  My  weight  has  been 
the  grand  misfortune  of  my  life.  It  spoiled  all  my  prospects  (as 
you  will  presently  hear)  before  I  was  two  days  old. 

My  story  begins  thirty-one  years  ago,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  fore- 
noon, and  starts  with  the  great  mistake  of  my  first  appearance  in 
this  world,  at  sea,  on  board  the  merchant  ship  Adventure,  Captain 
(Jillop,  five  hundred  tons  burden,  coppered,  and  carrying  an  experi- 
enced surgeon. 

In  presenting  myself  to  you  (which  I  am  now  about  to  do)  at 
that  eventful  period  of  my  life  when  I  was  from  five  to  ten  minutes 
old.  and  in  withdrawing  myself  again  from  your  notice  (so  as  not  to 
trouble  you  with  more  than  a  short  story)  before  the  time  when  I 
cut  my  tirst  tooth,  I  need  not  hesitate  to  admit  that  I  speak  on  hear- 
-:iy  knowledge  only.  It  is  knowledge,  however,  that  may  be  relied 
on.  tor  all  that.  My  information  comes  from  Captain  Gillop,  com- 
mander of  the  Atlrtnture  (who  sent  it  to  me  in  the  form  of  a  letter) ; 
I'roin  Mr.  Jolly,  experienced  surgeon  of  the  Adventure  (who  wrote  it 
for  me  —most  unfeelingly,  as  I  think — in  the  shape  of  a  humorous 
narrative):  and  from  Mrs.  Drabble,  stewardess  of  the  Adventure  (who 
told  it  me  by  word  of  mouth).  Those  three  persons  were,  in  various 
decrees,  spectators  - -I  may  say  astonished  spectators — of  the  events 
which  I  have  now  to  relate. 

The  .\ilriutiin\\\\.  the  time  I  speak  of.  was  bound  out  from  London 
to  Australia.  I  suppose  you  know  without  my  telling  you  that  thir- 
ty years  ago  was  long  before  the  time  of  the  gold-finding  and  the 

18 


420  THE    FATAL   CRADLE. 

famous  clipper  ships.  Building  in  the  new  colony  and  sheep-farm- 
ing far  up  inland  were  the  two  main  employments  of  those  days, 
and  the  passengers  on  board  our  vessel  were  consequently  builders 
or  sheep-farmers,  almost  to  a  man. 

A  ship  of  five  hundred  tons,  well  loaded  with  cargo,  doesn't  offer 
first-rate  accommodation  to  a  large  number  of  passengers.  Not  that 
the  gentlefolks  in  the  cabin  had  any  great  reason  to  complain. 
There  the  passage-money,  which  was  a  good  round  sum,  kept  them 
what  you  call  select.  One  or  two  berths  in  this  part  of  the  ship 
were  even  empty  and  going  a-begging,  in  consequence  of  there  be- 
ing only  four  cabin  passengers.  These  are  their  names  and  descrip- 
tions : 

Mr.  Sims,  a  middle  -  aged  man,  going  out  on  a  building  specula- 
tion ;  Mr.  Purling,  a  weakly  young  gentleman,  sent  on  a  long  sea- 
voyage,  for  the  benefit  of  his  health  ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smallchild,  a 
young  married  couple,  with  a  little  independence,  which  Mr.  Small- 
child  proposed  to  make  a  large  one  by  sheep-forming. 

This  gentleman  was  reported  to  the  captain  as  being  very  good 
company  when  on  shore.  But  the  sea  altered  him  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent. When  Mr.  Smallchild  was  not  sick,  he  was  eating  and  drink- 
ing ;  and  when  he  was  not  eating  and  drinking,  he  was  fast  asleep. 
He  was  perfectly  patient  and  good-humored,  and  wonderfully  nim- 
ble at  running  into  his  cabin  when  the  qualms  took  him  on  a  sud- 
den ;  but,  as  for  his  being  good  company,  nobody  heard  him  say  ten 
words  together  all  through  the  voyage.  And  no  wonder.  A  man 
can't  talk  in  the  qualms;  a  man  can't  talk  while  he  is  eating  and 
drinking;  and  a  man  can't  talk  when  he  is  asleep.  And  that  was 
Mr.  Smallchild's  life.  As  for  Mrs.  Smallchild,  she  kept  her  cabin 
from  first  to  last.  But  you  will  hear  more  of  her  presently. 

These  four  cabin  passengers,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  were 
well  enough  off  for  their  accommodation.  But  the  miserable  peo- 
ple in  the  steerage — a  poor  place  at  the  best  of  times  on  board  the 
Adventure — were  all  huddled  together,  men  and  women  and  chil- 
dren, higgledy-piggledy,  like  sheep  in  a  pen,  except  that  they  hadn't 
got  the  same  quantity  of  fine  fresh  air  to  blow  over  them.  They 
were  artisans  and  farm-laborers,  who  couldn't  make  it  out  in  the 
Old  Country.  I  have  no  information  either  of  their  exact  numbers 
or  of  their  names.  It  doesn't  matter;  there  was  only  one  family 
among  them  which  need  be  mentioned  particularly — namely,  the 
family  of  the  Heavysides.  To  wit,  Simon  Heavysides,  intelligent 
and  well-educated,  a  carpenter  by  trade;  Susan  Heavysides,  his 
wife ;  and  seven  little  Heavysides,  their  unfortunate  offspring.  My 
father  and  mother  and  brothers  and  sisters,  did  I  understand  you  to 
eay  ?  Don't  be  in  a  hurry !  I  recommend  you  to  wait  a  little  be- 
fore you  make  quite  sure  of  that  circumstance. 


THE    FATAL   CRADLE.  421 

Though  I  myself  had  not,  perhaps,  strictly  speaking,  come  on 
board  when  the  vessel  left  London,  my  ill  luck,  as  I  firmly  believe, 
had  shipped  in  tin-  A'/r, /,(>//•>  to  wait  for  me — and  decided  the  na- 
ture of  the  voyage  accordingly. 

Never  was  such  a  miserable  time  known.  Stormy  weather  came 
down  on  us  from  all  points  of  the  compass,  with  intervals  of  light, 
baffling  winds  or  dead  calms.  By  the  time  the  Adventure  had  been 
three  months  out,  Captain  Gillop's  naturally  sweet  temper  began  to 
get  soured.  I  leave  you  to  say  whether  it  was  likely  to  be  much 
improved  by  a  piece  of  news  which  reached  him  from  the  region  of 
the  cabin  on  the  morning  of  the  ninety-first  day.  It  had  fallen  to  a 
dead  calm  again ;  and  the  ship  was  rolling  about  helpless,  with  her 
head  all  round  the  compass,  when  Mr.  Jolly  (from  whose  facetious 
narrative  I  repeat  all  conversations  exactly  as  they  passed)  came  on 
deck  to  the  captain,  and  addressed  him  in  these  words : 

"  I  have  got  some  news  that  will  rather  surprise  you,"  said  Mr. 
Jolly,  smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands.  (Although  the  experienced 
surgeon  has  not  shown  much  sympathy  for  my  troubles,  I  won't 
deny  that  his  disposition  was  as  good  as  his  name.  To  this  day  no 
amount  of  bad  weather  or  hard  work  can  upset  Mr.  Jolly's  temper.) 

"  If  it's  news  of  a  fair  wind  coming,"  grumbled  the  captain,  "  that 
would  surprise  me  on  board  this  ship,  I  can  promise  you !" 

"  It's  not  exactly  a  wind  coming,"  said  Mr.  Jolly.  "  It's  another 
cabin  passenger." 

The  captain  looked  round  at  the  empty  sea,  with  the  land  thou- 
sands of  miles  away,  and  with  not  a  ship  in  sight— turned  sharply 
on  the  experienced  surgeon — eyed  him  hard — changed  color  sud- 
denly— and  asked  what  he  meant. 

"  I  mean  there's  a  fifth  cabin  passenger  coming  on  board,"  per- 
sisted Mr.  Jolly,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear — "introduced  by  Mrs. 
Smallchild — likely  to  join  us,  I  should  say,  toward  evening — size, 
nothing  to  speak  of — sex,  not  known  at  present — manners  and  cus- 
toms, probably  squally." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?"  asked  the  captain,  backing  away,  and 
turning  paler  and  paler. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answered  Mr.  Jolly,  nodding  hard  at  him. 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what,"  cried  Captain  Gillop.  suddenly  flying 
into  a  violent  passion, "  I  won't  have  it !  the  infernal  weather  has 
worried  me  out  of  my  life  and  soul  already — and  I  won't  have  it ! 
Put  it  off,  Jolly — tell  her  there  isn't  room  enough  for  that  sort  of 
thing  on  board  my  vessel.  What  does  she  mean  by  taking  us  all  in 
in  this  way  ?  Shameful !  Shameful !" 

"  No !  no !"  remonstrated  Mr.  Jolly.  "  Don't  look  at  it  in  that 
light.  It's  her  first  child,  poor  thing.  How  should  she  know  ?  Give 
her  a  little  more  experience,  and  I  dare  say — " 


422  THE   FATAL  CRADLE. 

"  Where's  her  husband  ?"  broke  in  the  captain,  with  a  threatening 
look.  "  I'll  speak  my  mind  to  her  husband,  at  any  rate." 

Mr.  Jolly  consulted  his  watch  before  he  answered. 

"  Half-past  eleven,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  consider  a  little.  It's  Mr. 
Smallchild's  regular  time  just  now  for  squaring  accounts  with  the 
sea.  He'll  have  done  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  In  five  minutes  more 
he'll  be  fast  asleep.  At  one  o'clock  he'll  eat  a  hearty  lunch,  and  go 
to  sleep  again.  At  half-past  two  he'll  square  accounts  as  before — 
and  so  on  till  night.  You'll  make  nothing  out  of  Mr.  Smallchild, 
captain.  Extraordinary  man  —  wastes  tissue,  and  repairs  it  again 
perpetually,  in  the  most  astonishing  manner.  If  we  are  another 
month  at  sea,  I  believe  we  shall  bring  him  into  port  totally  coma- 
tose.— Halloo  !  What  do  you  want  ?" 

The  steward's  mate  had  approached  the  quarter-deck  while  the 
doctor  was  speaking.  Was  it  a  curious  coincidence  ?  This  man 
also  was  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  exactly  like  Mr.  Jolly. 

"  You're  wanted  in  the  steerage,  sir,"  said  the  steward's  mate  to 
the  doctor.  "  A  woman  taken  bad,  name  of  Heavysides." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Mr.  Jolly.  "Ha,  ha,  ha!  You  don't  mean — 
eh?" 

"  That's  it,  sir,  sure  enough,"  said  the  steward's  mate,  in  the  most 
positive  manner. 

Captain  Gillop  looked  all  around  him  in  silent  desperation ;  lost 
his  sea-legs  for  the  first  time  these  twenty  years;  staggered  back  till 
he  was  brought  all  standing  by  the  side  of  his  own  vessel ,  dashed 
his  fist  on  the  bulwark,  and  found  language  to  express  himself  in, 
at  the  same  moment. 

"This  ship  is  bewitched,"  said  the  captain,  wildly.  "Stop!"  he 
called  out,  recovering  himself  a  little  as  the  doctor  bustled  away  to 
the  steerage.  "  Stop  !  If  it's  true,  Jolly,  send  her  husband  here  aft 
to  me.  Damme,  I'll  have  it  out  with  one  of  the  husbands  !"  said  the 
captain,  shaking  his  fist  viciously  at  the  empty  air. 

Ten  minutes  passed  ;  and  then  there  came  staggering  toward  the 
captain,  tottering  this  way  and  that  with  the  rolling  of  the  becalmed 
vessel,  a  long,  lean,  'melancholy,  light  -  haired  man,  with  a  Roman 
nose,  a  watery  blue  eye,  and  a  complexion  profusely  spotted  with 
large  brown  freckles.  This  was  Simon  Heavysides,  the  intelligent 
carpenter,  with  the  wife  and  the  family  of  seven  small  children  on 
board. 

"  Oh  !  you're  the  Man,  are  you  ?"  said  the  captain. 

The  ship  lurched  heavily  ;  and  Simon  Heavysides  staggered  away 
with  a  run  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  deck,  as  if  he  preferred  going 
straight  overboard  into  the  sea  to  answering  the  captain's  question. 

"You're  the  man— -are  you?"  repeated  the  captain,  following  him, 
seizing  him  by  the  collar,  and  pinning  him  up  fiercely  against  the 


THE    FATAL   CRADLE.  4J  ) 

bulwark.  "It's  your  wife — is  it?  You  infernal  rascal!  what  do 
you  mean  by  turning  my  ship  into  a  lying-in  hospital?  You  have 
rommitteil  an  act  of  mutiny ;  or,  if  it  isn't  mutiny,  it's  next  door  to 
it.  I've  put  a  inan  in  irons  for  less !  I've  more  than  half  a  mind  to 
put  you  in  irons!  Hold  up,  you  slippery  lubber!  What  do  you 
mean  by  bringing  passengers  I  don't  bargain  for  on  board  my  ves- 
sel? What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself,  before  I  clap  the  irons 
on  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  sir,"  answered  Simon  Heavysides,  accepting  the  cap- 
tain's strong  language  without  a  word  of  protest.  "As  for  the  pun- 
ishment you  mentioned  just  now,  sir,"  continued  Simon,  "I  wish  to 
say — having  seven  children  more  than  I  know  how  to  provide  for, 
and  an  eighth  coming  to  make  things  worse — I  respectfully  wish  to 
say,  sir,  that  my  mind  is  in  irons  already;  and  I  don't  know  as  it 
will  make  much  difference  if  you  put  my  body  in  irons  along  with 
it." 

The  captain  mechanically  let  go  of  the  carpenter's  collar;  the 
mild  despair  of  the  man  melted  him  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Why  did  you  come  to  sea  ?  Why  didn't  you  wait  ashore  till  it 
was  all  over  ?"  asked  the  captain,  as  sternly  as  he  could. 

"  It's  no  use  waiting,  sir,"  remarked  Simon.  "  In  our  line  of  life, 
as  soon  as  it's  over  it  begins  again.  There's  no  end  to  it  that  I  can 
see,"  said  the  miserable  carpenter,  after  a  moment's  meek  consider- 
ation— "  except  the  grave." 

"  Who's  talking  about  the  grave  ?"  cried  Mr.  Jolly,  coming  up  at 
that  moment.  "  It's  births  we've  got  to  do  with  on  board  this  vessel 
— not  burials.  Captain  Gillop,  this  woman,  Mrs.  Heavysides,  can't  be 
left  in  your  crowded  steerage  in  her  present  condition.  She  must  be 
moved  off  into  one  of  the  empty  berths — and  the  sooner  the  better, 
I  can  tell  you !" 

The  captain  began  to  look  savage  again.  A  steerage  passenger 
in  one  of  his  "  state-rooms  "  was  a  nautical  anomaly  subversive  of  all 
discipline.  He  eyed  the  carpenter  once  more,  as  if  he  was  mentally 
measuring  him  for  a  set  of  irons. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  Simon  remarked,  politely — "  very  sorry  that 
any  inadvertence  of  mine  or  Mrs.  Heavysides — ' 

"  Take  your  long  carcass  and  your  long  tongue  forward !"  thun- 
dnvd  the  captain.  "  When  talking  will  mend  matters,  I'll  send  for 
you  a«rain.  Give  your  own  orders,  Jolly,"  he  went  on,  resignedly, 
as  Simon  staggered  off.  "  Turn  the  ship  into  a  nursery  as  soon  as 
you  like '." 

Five  minutes  later — so  expeditious  was  Mr.  Jolly  —  Mrs.  Heavy- 
sides  appeared  horizontally  on  deck,  shrouded  in  blankets,  and  sup- 
ported by  three  men.  When  this  intcn  >tinur  procession  passed  the 
captain,  he  shrank  aside  from  it  with  as  vivid  an  appearance  of  hor- 


424  THE    FATAL   CKADLB. 

ror  as  if  a  wild  bull  was  being  carried  by  him  instead  of  a  British 
matron. 

The  sleepingrberths  below  opened  on  either  side  out  of  the  main 
cabin.  On  the  left-hand  side  (looking  toward  the  ship's  bowsprit) 
was  Mrs.  Smallchild.  On  the  right-hand  side,  opposite  to  her,  the 
doctor  established  Mrs.  Heavysides.  A  partition  of  canvas  was 
next  run  up,  entirely  across  the  main  cabin.  The  smaller  of  the  two 
temporary  rooms  thus  made  lay  nearest  the  stairs  leading  on  deck, 
and  was  left  free  to  the  public.  The  larger  was  kept  sacred  to  the 
doctor  and  his  mysteries.  When  an  old  clothes-basket,  emptied, 
cleaned,  and  comfortably  lined  with  blankets  (to  serve  for  a  make- 
shift cradle),  had  been  in  due  course  of  time  carried  into  the  inner 
cabin,  and  had  been  placed  midway  between  the  two  sleeping- 
berths,  so  as  to  be  easily  producible  when  wanted,  the  outward  and 
visible  preparations  of  Mr.  Jolly  were  complete ;  the  male  passengers 
had  all  taken  refuge  on  deck;  and  the  doctor  and  the  stewardess 
were  left  in  undisturbed  possession  of  the  lower  regions. 

While  it  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  the  weather  changed  for 
the  better.  For  once  in  a  way,  the  wind  came  from  a  fair  quarter, 
and  the  Adventure  bowled  along  pleasantly  before  it  almost  on  an 
even  keel.  Captain  Gillop  mixed  with  the  little  group  of  male  pas- 
sengers on  the  quarter-deck,  restored  to  his  sweetest  temper;  and 
set  them  his  customary  example,  after  dinner,  of  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  If  this  fine  weather  lasts,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  make 
out  very  well  with  our  meals  up  here,  and  we  shall  have  our  two 
small  extra  cabin  passengers  christened  on  dry  land  in  a  week's 
time,  if  their  mothers  approve  of  it.  How  do  you  feel  in  your  mind, 
sir,  about  your  good  lady  ?" 

Mr.  Smallchild  (to  whom  the  inquiry  was  addressed)  had  his 
points  of  external  personal  resemblance  to  Simon  Heavysides.  He 
was  neither  so  tall  nor  so  lean,  certainly — but  he,  too,  had  a  Roman 
nose,  and  light  hair,  and  watery  blue  eyes.  With  careful  reference 
to  his  peculiar  habits  at  sea,  he  had  been  placed  conveniently  close 
to  the  bulwark,  and  had  been  raised  on  a  heap  of  old  sails  and 
cushions,  so  that  he  could  easily  get  his  head  over  the  ship's  side 
when  occasion  required.  The  food  and  drink  which  assisted  in 
"restoring  his  tissue,"  when  he  was  not  asleep  and  not  "squaring 
accounts  with  the  sea,"  lay  close  to  his  hand.  It  was  then  a  little 
after  three  o'clock ;  and  the  snore  with  which  Mr.  Smallchild  an- 
swered the  captain's  inquiry  showed  that  he  had  got  round  again, 
with  the  regularity  of  clock-work,  to  the  period  of  the  day  when 
he  recruited  himself  with  sleep. 

"  What  an  insensible  blockhead  that  man  is !"  said  Mr.  Sims,  the 
middle-aged  passenger,  looking  across  the  deck  contemptuously  at 
Mr.  Smallchild. 


THE    FATAL   CRADLE.  423 

"If  the  sea  had  the  same  effect  on  you  that  it  has  on  him,"  re- 
torted the  invalid  passenger,  Mr.  Purling,  "  you  would  just  be  as  in- 
sensible yourself." 

Mr.  Purling  (who  was  a  man  of  sentiment)  disagreed  with  Mr. 
Sims  (who  was  a  man  of  business)  on  every  conceivable  subject,  all 
through  the  voyage.  Before,  however,  they  could  continue  the  dis- 
pute about  Mr.  Smallchild,  the  doctor  surprised  them  by  appearing 
from  the  cabin. 

"  Any  news  from  below,  Jolly  ?"  asked  the  captain,  anxiously. 

"None  whatever,"  answered  the  doctor.  "I've  come  to  idle  the 
afternoon  away  up  here,  along  with  the  rest  of  you." 

As  events  turned  out,  Mr.  Jolly  idled  away  an  hour  and  a  half 
exactly.  At  the  end  of  that  time  Mrs.  Drabble,  the  stewardess, 
appeared  with  a  face  of  mystery,  and  whispered,  nervously,  to  the 
doctor, 

"Please  to  step  below  directly,  sir." 

"  Which  of  them  is  it  ?"  asked  Mr.  Jolly. 

"  Both  of  them,"  answered  Mrs.  Drabble,  emphatically. 

The  doctor  looked  grave ;  the  stewardess  looked  frightened.  The 
two  immediately  disappeared  together. 

"  I  suppose,  gentlemen,"  said  Captain  Gillop,  addressing  Mr.  Pur- 
ling, Mr.  Sims,  and  the  first  mate,  who  had  just  joined  the  party — 
"I  suppose  it's  only  fit  and  proper,  in  the  turn  things  have  taken, 
to  shake  up  Mr.  Smallchild  ?  And  I  don't  doubt  but  what  we 
ought  to  have  the  other  husband  handy,  as  a  sort  of  polite  atten- 
tion under  the  circumstances.  Pass  the  word  forward  there,  for  Si- 
mon Heavysides.  Mr.  Smallchild,  sir !  rouse  up  !  Here's  your  good 
lady —  Hang  me,  gentlemen,  if  I  know  exactly  how  to  put  it  to 
him." 

"  Yes.  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Smallchild,  opening  his  eyes  drow- 
sily. "  Biscuit  and  cold  bacon,  as  usual — when  I'm  ready.  I'm  not 
ready  yet.  Thank  you.  Good-afternoon."  Mr.  Smallchild  closed 
his  eyes  again,  and  became,  in  the  doctor's  phrase,  "  totally  coma- 
tose." 

Before  Captain  Gillop  could  hit  on  any  new  plan  for  rousing  this 
imperturbable  passenger,  Simon  Heavysides  once  more  approached 
the  quarter-deck. 

"I  spoke  a  little  sharp  to  you,  just  now,  my  man,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  being  worried  in  my  mind  by  what's  going  on  on  board  this 
vessel.  But  I'll  make  it  up  to  you,  never  fear.  Here's  your  wife  in 
what  they  call  an  interesting  situation.  It's  only  right  you  should 
l>r  \\itliin  easy  hail  of  her.  I  look  upon  you,  Heavysides,  as  a  steer- 
age passenger  in  difficulties ;  and  I  freely  give  you  leave  to  stop  here 
along  with  us  till  it's  all  over." 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,"  said  Simon ;  "  and  I  am  indeed  thank- 


426  THE    FATAL   CRADLE. 

ful  to  you  and  to  these  gentlemen.  But  please  to  remember,  I  have 
seven  children  already  in  the  steerage — and  there's  nobody  left  to 
mind  'em  but  me.  My  wife  has  got  over  it  uncommonly  well,  sir, 
on  seven  previous  occasions — and  I  don't  doubt  but  what  she'll  con- 
duct herself  in  a  similar  manner  on  the  eighth.  It  will  be  a  satis- 
faction to  her  mind,  Captain  Gillop  and  gentlemen,  if  she  knows  I'm 
out  of  the  way,  and  minding  the  children.  For  which  reason,  I  re- 
spectfully take  my  leave."  With  those  words  Simon  made  his  bow, 
and  returned  to  his  family. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  these  two  husbands  take  it  easy  enough,  at 
any  rate  !"  said  the  captain.  "  One  of  them  is  used  to  it,  to  be  sure ; 
and  the  other  is — ;" 

Here  a  banging  of  cabin  doors  below,  and  a  hurrying  of  footsteps, 
startled  the  speaker  and  his  audience  into  momentary  silence  and 
attention. 

"  Ease  her  with  the  helm,  Williamson !"  said  Captain  Gillop,  ad- 
dressing the  man  who  was  steering  the  vessel.  "  In  my  opinion, 
gentlemen,  the  less  the  ship  pitches  the  better,  in  the  turn  things 
are  taking  now." 

The  afternoon  wore  on  into  evening,  and  evening  into  night. 

Mr.  Smallchild  performed  the  daily  ceremonies  of  his  nautical 
existence  as  punctually  as  usual.  He  was  aroused  to  a  sense  of  Mrs. 
Smallchild's  situation  when  he  took  his  biscuit  and  bacon  ;  lost  the 
sense  again  when  the  time  came  round  for  "  squaring  his  accounts ;" 
recovered  it  in  the  interval  which  ensued  before  he  went  to  sleep ; 
lost  it  again,  as  a  matter  of  course,  when  his  eyes  closed  once  more 
— and  so  on  through  the  evening  and  early  night.  Simon  Heavy- 
sides  received  messages  occasionally  (through  the  captain's  care), 
telling  him  to  keep  his  mind  easy ;  returned  messages  mentioning 
that  his  mind  was  easy,  and  that  the  children  were  pretty  quiet,  but 
never  approached  the  deck  in  his  own  person.  Mr.  Jolly  now  and 
then  showed  himself;  said  "All  right — no  news;"  took  a  little  light 
refreshment,  and  disappeared  again  as  cheerful  as  ever.  The  fair 
breeze  still  held  ;  the  captain's  temper  remained  unruffled ;  the  man 
at  the  helm  eased  the  vessel,  from  time  to  time,  with  the  most  anx- 
ious consideration.  Ten  o'clock  came;  the  moon  rose  and  shone 
superbly ;  the  nightly  grog  made  its  appearance  on  the  quarter- 
deck ;  the  captain  gave  the  passengers  the  benefit  of  his  company ; 
and  still  nothing  happened.  Twenty  minutes  more  of  suspense 
slowly  succeeded  each  other — and  then,  at  last,  Mr.  Jolly  was  seen 
suddenly  to  ascend  the  cabin  stairs. 

To  the  amazement  of  the  little  group  on  the  quarter-deck,  the 
doctor  held  Mrs.  Drabble,  the  stewardess,  fast  by  the  arm,  and,  with- 
out taking  the  slightest  notice  of  the  captain  or  the  passengers, 
placed  her  on  the  nearest  seat  he  could  find.  As  he  did  this  his 


THE    FATAL   CRADLE.  427 

/.ice  became  visible  in  the  moonlight,  and  displayed  to  the  startled 
spectators  an  expression  of  blank  consternation. 

••Compose  yourself,  Mrs.  Drabble,"  said  the  doctor,  in  tones  of 
unmistakable  alarm.  '•  Keep  quiet,  and  let  the  air  blow  over  you. 
Collect  yourself,  ma'am — for  Heaven's  sake,  collect  yourself." 

Mr-.  Drabble  made  no  answer.  She  beat  her  hands  vacantly  on 
her  knees,  am!  stared  straight  before  her,  like  a  woman  panic- 
stricken. 

••  \V  hat 's  wrong  ?"  asked  the  captain,  setting  down  his  glass  of  grog 
in  dismay.  u  Any  thing  amiss  with  those  two  unfortunate  women  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  doctor.     "  Both  doing  admirably  well." 

Any  thing  queer  with  their  babies?"  continued  the  captain. 
"  Are  there  more  than  you  bargained  for,  Jolly  ?  Twins,  for  in- 
stance ?" 

"  No  !  no  !"  replied  Mr.  Jolly,  impatiently.  "  A  baby  apiece — 
both  boys — both  in  first-rate  condition.  Judge  for  yourselves,"  add- 
ed the  doctor,  as  the  two  uew  cabin  passengers  tried  their  lungs  be- 
low tor  the  first  time,  and  found  that  they  answered  their  purpose 
in  the  most  satisfactory  manner. 

••  What  the  devil's  amiss,  then,  with  you  and  Mrs.  Drabble?"  per- 
sisted the  captain,  beginning  to  lose  his  temper  again. 

"Mrs.  Drabble  and  I  are  two  innocent  people,  and  we  have  got 
into  the  most  dreadful  scrape  that  ever  you  heard  of!"  was  Mr.  Jol- 
ly's startling  answer. 

The  captain,  followed  by  Mr.  Purling  and  Mr.  Sims,  approach- 
ed the  doctor  with  looks  of  horror.  Even  the  man  at  the  wheel 
stretched  himself  over  it  as  far  as  he  could  to  hear  what  was  com- 
ing next.  The  only  uninterested  person  present  was  Mr.  Smallchild. 
His  time  had  come  round  for  going  to  sleep  again,  and  he  was 
snoring  peacefully,  with  his  biscuit  and  bacon  close  beside  him. 

"  Let's  hear  the  worst  of  it  at  once,  Jolly,"  said  the  captain,  a  lit- 
tle  impatiently. 

The  doctor  paid  no  heed  to  his  request.  His  whole  attention  was 
absorbed  by  Mrs.  Drabble.  "Are  you  better  now,  ma'am?"  he  ask- 
ed, anxiously. 

"  No  better  in  my  mind,"  answered  Mrs.  Drabble,  beginning  to 
beat  her  knees  again.  "  Worse,  if  any  thin ir." 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Jolly,  coaxingly.  "  I'll  put  the  whole 
case  over  again  to  you,  in  a  few  plain  questions.  You'll  find  it  all 
come  back  to  your  memory,  if  you  only  follow  me  attentively,  and 
if  you  take  time  to  think  and  collect  yourself  before  you  attempt  to 
answer." 

Mrs.  Drabble  bowed  her  head  in  speechless  submission — and  list- 
ened. Every  body  else  on  the  quarter-deck  listened,  except  the 
impenetrable  Mr.  Smallchild. 

18* 


428  THE    FATAL   CRADLE. 

"  Now,  ma'am  !"  said  the  doctor.  "  Our  troubles  began  in  Mrs. 
Heavysides's  cabin,  which  is  situated  on  the  starboard  side  of  the 
ship  ?" 

"  They  did,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Drabble. 

"  Good !  We  went  backward  and  forward,  an  infinite  number  of 
times,  between  Mrs.  Heavysides  (starboard)  and  Mrs.  Smallchild  (lar- 
board) —  but  we  found  that  Mrs.  Heavysides,  having  got  the  start, 
kept  it — and  when  I  called  out,  '  Mrs.  Drabble !  here's  a  chopping 
boy  for  you ;  come  and  take  him  !' — I  called  out  starboard,  didn't  I  ?" 

"  Starboard,  sir — I'll  take  my  oath  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Drabble. 

"  Good  again !  '  Here's  a  chopping  boy,'  I  said.  '  Take  him, 
ma'am,  and  make  him  comfortable  in  the  cradle.'  And  you  took 
him,  and  made  him  comfortable  in  the  cradle,  accordingly  ?  Now 
where  was  the  cradle  ?" 

"  In  the  main  cabin,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Drabble. 

"  Just  so !  In  the  main  cabin,  because  we  hadn't  got  room  for  it 
in  either  of  the  sleeping- cabins.  You  put  the  starboard  baby  (oth- 
erwise Heavysides)  in  the  clothes-basket  cradle  in  the  main  cabin. 
Good  once  more.  How  was  the  cradle  placed  ?" 

.."  Crosswise  to  the  ship,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Drabble. 

"  Crosswise  to  the  ship  ?  That  is  to  say,  with  one  side  longwise 
toward  the  stern  of  the  vessel,  and  one  side  longwise  toward  the 
bows.  Bear  that  in  mind— and  now  follow  me  a  little  furtl  e*  No! 
no !  don't  say  you  can't,  and  your  head's  in  a  whirl;  My  next  ques- 
tion will  steady  it.  Carry  your  mind  on  half  an  hour,  Mrs.  Drabble. 
At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  you  heard  my  voice  again ;  and  my 
voice  called  out,  '  Mrs.  Drabble !  here's  another  chopping  boy  for 
you ;  come  and  take  him  !' — and  you  came  and  took  him  larboard, 
didn't  you  ?" 

"  Larboard,  sir,  I  don't  deny  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Drabble. 

"  Better  and  better !  '  Here  is  another  chopping  boy,'  I  said. 
'  Take  him,  ma'am,  and  make  him  comfortable  in  the  cradle,  along 
with  number  one.'  And  you  took  the  larboard  baby  (otherwise 
Smallchild),  and  made  him  comfortable  in  the  cradle  along  with 
the  starboard  baby  (otherwise  Heavysides),  accordingly  ?  Now 
what  happened  after  that  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me,  sir !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Drabble,  losing  her  self-con- 
trol, and  wringing  her  hands  desperately. 

"  Steady,  ma'am !  I'll  put  it  to  you  as  plain  as  print.  Steady ! 
and  listen  to  me.  Just  as  you  had  made  the  larboard  baby  com- 
fortable I  had  occasion  to  send  you  into  the  starboard  (or  Heavy- 
sides)  cabin  to  fetch  something  which  I  wanted  in  the  larboard  (or 
Smallchild)  cabin ;  I  kept  you  there  a  little  while  along  with  me ;  I 
left  you  and  went  into  the  Heavysides  cabin,  and  called  to  you  to 
bring  me  something  I  wanted  out  of  the  Smallchild  cabin,  but  be- 


429 

fore  you  got  half-way  across  the  main  cabin  I  said,  'No;  stop  where 
you  are,  and  I'll  come  to  you ;'  immediately  after  which  Mrs.  Small- 
child  alarmed  you,  and  you  came  across  to  me  of  your  own  accord ; 
and  thereupon  I  stopped  you  in  the  main  cabin,  and  said,  '  Mrs. 
Drabble,  your  mind's  Betting  confused;  sit  down  and  collect  your 
scattered  intellects ;'  and  you  sat  down  and  tried  to  collect  them — " 

(••And  couldn't,  sir."  interposed  Mrs.  Drabble,  parenthetically. 
"  Oh,  my  head  !  my  head  !") 

— "And  tried  to  collect  your  scattered  intellects,  and  couldn't  '." 
continued  the  doctor.  "And  the  consequence  was,  when  I  came 
nut  from  the  Smallchild  cabin  to  see  how  you  were  getting  on,  I 
found  you  with  the  clothes-basket  cradle  hoisted  up  on  the  cabin 
table,  staring  down  at  the  babies  inside,  with  your  mouth  dropped 
open,  and  both  your  hands  twisted  in  your  hair  ?  And  when  I  said, 
'  Any  thing  wrong  with  either  of  those  two  fine  boys,  Mrs.  Drabble  ?' 
you  caught  me  by  the  coat  collar,  and  whispered  in  my  right  ear 
these  words, '  Lord  save  us  and  help  us,  Mr.  Jolly,  I've  confused  the 
two  babies  in  my  mind,  and  I  don't  know  which  is  which  !'  " 

"And  I  don't  know  now  !"  cried  Mrs.  Drabble,  hysterically.  "  Oh, 
my  head  !  my  head  !  I  don't  know  now  !" 

"  Captain  Gillop  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Jolly,  wheeling  round 
and  addressing  his  audience  with  the  composure  of  sheer  despair, 
"that  is  the  Scrape — and,  if  you  ever  heard  of  a  worse  one,  I'll  trou- 
ble you  to  compose  this  miserable  woman  by  mentioning  it  imme- 
diately." 

Captain  Gillop  looked  at  Mr.  Purling  and  Mr.  Sims.  Mr.  Purling 
and  Mr.  Sims  looked  at  Captain  Gillop.  They  were  all  three  thun- 
derstruck— and  no  wonder. 

"Can't  you  throw  any  light  on  it,  Jolly?"  inquired  the  captain, 
who  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"If  you  knew  what  I  have  had  to  do  below,  you  wouldn't  ask  me 
such  a  question  as  that,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  Remember  that  I 
have  had  the  lives  of  two  women  and  two  children  to  answer  for — 
n-incinber  that  I  have  been  cramped  up  in  two  small  sleeping-cabins, 
with  hardly  room  to  turn  round  in,  and  just  light  enough  from  two 
miserable  little  lamps  to  see  my  hand  before  me ;  remember  the  pro- 
fessional difficulties  of  the  situation,  the  ship  rolling  about  under 
me  all  the  while,  and  the  stewardess  to  compose  into  the  bargain ; 
bear  all  that  in  mind,  will  you,  and  then  tell  me  how  much  spare 
time  I  had  on  my  hands  for  comparing  two  boys  together  inch  by 
inch — two  boys  born  at  night,  within  half  an  hour  of  each  other,  on 
board  a  ship  at  sea.  Ha,  ha!  I  only  wonder  the  mothers  and  the 
boys  and  the  doctor  are  all  five  of  them  alive  to  tell  the  story!" 

"  No  marks  on  one  or  other  of  them  that  happened  to  catch  your 
eye  ?"  asked  Mr.  Sims. 


430  THE    FATAL   CRADLE. 

"  They  must  have  been  strongish  marks  to  catch  my  eye  in  the 
light  I  had  to  work  by,  and  in  the  professional  difficulties  I  had  to 
grapple  with,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  saw  they  were  both  straight, 
well-formed  children — and  that's  all  I  saw." 

"Are  their  infant  features  sufficiently  developed  to  indicate  a 
family  likeness  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Purling.  "  Should  you  say  they 
took  after  their  fathers  or  their  mothers  ?" 

"  Both  of  them  have  light  eyes,  and  light  hair — such  as  it  is,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Jolly,  doggedly.  "  Judge  for  yourself." 

"  Mr.  Smallchild  has  light  eyes  and  light  hair,"  remarked  Mr. 
Sims. 

"  And  Simon  Heavysides  has  light  eyes  and  light  hair,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Purling. 

"  I  should  recommend  waking  Mr.  Smallchild,  and  sending  for 
Heavysides,  and  letting  the  two  fathers  toss  up  for  it,"  suggested 
Mr.  Sims. 

"  The  parental  feeling  is  not  to  be  trifled  with  in  that  heartless 
manner,"  retorted  Mr.  Purling.  "  I  should  recommend  trying  the 
Voice  of  Nature." 

"What  may  that  be,  sir?"  inquired  Captain  Gillop,  with  great 
curiosity. 

"  The  maternal  instinct,"  replied  Mr.  Purling.  "  The  mother's  in- 
tuitive knowledge  of  her  own  child." 

"  Ay,  ay !"  said  the  captain.  "  Well  thought  of.  What  do  you 
say,  Jolly,  to  the  Voice  of  Nature  ?" 

The  doctor  held  up  his  hand  impatiently.  He  was  engaged  in 
resuming  the  effort  to  rouse  Mrs.  Brabble's  memory  by  a  system  of 
amateur  cross-examination,  with  the  unsatisfactory  result  of  confus- 
ing her  more  hopelessly  than  ever. 

Could  she  put  the  cradle  back,  in  her  own  mind,  into  its  original 
position  ?  No.  Could  she  remember  whether  she  laid  the  star- 
board baby  (otherwise  Heavysides)  on  the  side  of  the  cradle  near- 
est the  stern  of  the  ship,  or  nearest  the  bows  ?  No.  Could  she 
remember  any  better  about  the  larboard  baby  (otherwise  Small- 
child)  ?  No.  Why  did  she  move  the  cradle  on  to  the  cabin  table, 
and  so  bewilder  herself  additionally,  when  she  was  puzzled  already  ? 
Because  it  came  over  her,  on  a  sudden,  that  she  had  forgotten,  in 
the  dreadful  confusion  of  the  time,  which  was  which  ;  and  of  course 
she  wanted  to  look  closer  at  them,  and  see;  and  she  couldn't  see; 
and  to  her  dying  day  she  should  never  forgive  herself;  and  let 
them  throw  her  overboard,  for  a  miserable  wretch,  if  they  liked — 
and  so  on,  till  the  persevering  doctor  was  wearied  out  at  last,  and 
gave  up  Mrs.  Drabble,  and  gave  up,  with  her,  the  whole  case. 

"  I  see  nothing  for  it  but  the  Voice  of  Nature,"  said  the  captain,  hold- 
ing fast  to  Mr.  Purling's  idea.  "  Try  it,  Jolly — you  can  but  try  it." 


THE    FATAL   CRADLE.  431 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  can't  leave  the 
women  alone  any  longer,  and  the  moment  I  get  below  they  will 
liotli  a-k  (<>r  their  babies.  Wait  here  till  you're  fit  to  be  seen,  Mrs. 
Drabble,  aiitl  then  follow  me.  Voice  of  Nature!"  added  Mr.  Jolly, 
contemptuously.  ;is  lie  descended  the  cabin  stairs.  "Oh  yes,  I'll  try 
it  much  good  the  Voice  of  Nature  will  do  us,  gentlemen.  You 
shall  judge  for  yourselves." 

Favored  by  the  night,  Mr.  Jolly  cunningly  turned  down  the  dim 
lamps  in  the  sleeping-cabins  to  a  mere  glimmer,  on  the  pretext  that 
the  light  was  bad  for  his  patients'  eyes.  He  then  took  up  the  first 
of  the  two  unlucky  babies  that  came  to  hand,  marked  the  clothes  in 
which  it  was  wrapped  with  a  blot  of  ink,  and  carried  it  in  to  Mrs. 
Smallchild.  choosing  her  cabin  merely  because  he  happened  to  be 
nearest  to  it.  The  second  baby  (distinguished  by  having  no  mark) 
was  taken  by  Mrs.  Drabble  to  Mrs.  Heavysides.  For  a  certain  time 
the  t\vo  mothers  and  the  two  babies  were  left  together.  They  were 
then  separated  again  by  medical  order;  and  were  afterward  re- 
united, with  the  difference  that  the  marked  baby  went  on  this  oc- 
casion to  Mrs.  Heavysides,  and  the  unmarked  baby  to  Mrs.  Small- 
child  -the  result,  in  the  obscurity  of  the  sleeping-cabins,  proving 
to  be  that  one  baby  did  just  as  well  as  the  other,  and  that  the  Voice 
of  Nature  was  (as  Mr.  Jolly  had  predicted)  totally  incompetent  to 
settle  the  existing  difficulty. 

••  While  night  serves  us,  Captain  Gillop,  we  shall  do  very  well," 
said  the  doctor,  after  he  had  duly  reported  the  failure  of  Mr.  Pur- 
ling's  suggested  experiment.  ''  But  when  morning  comes,  and  day- 
light shows  the  difference  between  the  children,  we  must  be  pre- 
pared with  a  course  of  some  kind.  If  the  two  mothers  below  get 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  case  as  it  stands,  the  nervous  shock  of 
the  discovery  may  do  dreadful  mischief.  They  must  be  kept  de- 
ceived, in  the  interests  of  their  own  health.  We  must  choose  a 
baby  for  each  of  them  when  to-morrow  comes,  and  then  hold  to  the 
choice,  till  the  mothers  are  well  and  up  again.  The  question  is, 
who's  to  take  the  responsibility?  I  don't  usually  stick  at  trifles — 
but  I  candidly  admit  that  7'm  afraid  of  it." 

"I  decline  meddling  in  the  matter,  on  the  ground  that  I  am  a 
perfect  stranger,''  said  Mr.  Sims. 

"And  I  object  to  interfere,  from  precisely  similar  motives,"  added 
Mr.  Purling,  agreeing  for  the  first  time  with  a  proposition  that  ema- 
nated from  his  natural  enemy  all  through  the  voyage. 

"  Wait  a  minute, gentlemen,"  said  Captain  Gillop.  "I've  got  this 
ditlicult  matter,  as  I  think,  in  its  right  bearings.  We  must  make 
a  (lean  breast  of  it  to  the  husbands,  and  let  them  take  the  responsi- 
bility." 

"  I  believe  they  won't  accept  it,"  observed  Mr.  Sims. 


432  THE    FATAL   CKADLB. 

"And  I  believe  they  will,"  asserted  Mr.  Purling,  relapsing  into- 
his  old  habits. 

"  If  they  won't,"  said  the  captain,  firmly,  "  I'm  master  on  board 
this  ship — and,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Thomas  Gillop,  /'ll  take  the 
responsibility !" 

This  courageous  declaration  settled  all  difficulties  for  the  time 
being ;  and  a  council  was  held  to  decide  on  future  proceedings. 
It  was  resolved  to  remain  passive  until  the  next  morning,  on  the 
last  faint  chance  that  a  few  hours'  sleep  might  compose  Mrs.  Drab- 
ble's  bewildered  memory.  The  babies  were  to  be  moved  into  the 
main  cabin  before  the  daylight  grew  bright — or,  in  other  words, 
before  Mrs.  Smallchild  or  Mrs.  Heavysides  could  identify  the  infant 
who  had  passed  the  night  with  her.  The  doctor  and  the  captain 
were  to  be  assisted  by  Mr.  Purling,  Mr.  Sims,  and  the  first  mate,  in 
the  capacity  of  witnesses;  and  the  assembly  so  constituted  was  to 
meet,  in  consideration  of  the  emergency  of  the  case,  at  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  punctually. 

At  six  o'clock,  accordingly,  with  the  weather  fine,  and  the  wind 
still  fair,  the  proceedings  began.  For  the  last  time  Mr.  Jolly  cross- 
examined  Mrs.  Drabble,  assisted  by  the  captain,  and  supervised  by 
the  witnesses.  Nothing  whatever  was  elicited  from  the  unfortunate 
stewardess.  The  doctor  pronounced  her  confusion  to  be  chronic, 
and  the  captain  and  the  witnesses  unanimously  agreed  with  him. 

The  next  experiment  tried  was  the  revelation  of  the  true  state  of 
the  case  to  the  husbands. 

Mr.  Smallchild  happened,  on  this  occasion,  to  be  "squaring  his 
accounts"  for  the  morning;  and  the  first  articulate  words  which 
escaped  him  in  reply  to  the  disclosure  were,  "  Deviled  biscuit  and 
anchovy  paste."  Further  perseverance  merely  elicited  an  impatient 
request  that  they  would  "  pitch  him  overboard  at  once,  and  the  two 
babies  along  with  him."  Serious  remonstrance  was  tried  next,  with 
no  better  effect.  "  Settle  it  how  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Smallchild, 
faintly.  "  Do  you  leave  it  to  me,  sir,  as  commander  of  this  vessel  ?" 
asked  Captain  Gillop.  (No  answer.)  "  Nod  your  head,  sir,  if  you 
can't  speak."  Mr.  Smallchild  nodded  his  head  roundwise  on  his 
pillow — and  fell  asleep.  "  Does  that  count  for  leave  to  me  to  act  ?" 
asked  Captain  Gillop  of  the  witnesses.  And  the  witnesses  answered, 
decidedly,  Yes. 

The  ceremony  was  then  repeated  with  Simon  Heavysides,  who 
responded,  as  became  so  intelligent  a  man,  with  a  proposal  of  his 
own  for  solving  the  difficulty. 

"  Captain  Gillop  and  gentlemen,"  said  the  carpenter,  with  fluent 
and  melancholy  politeness,  "  I  should  wish  to  consider  Mr.  Small- 
child  before  myself  in  this  matter.  I  am  quite  willing  to  part  with 
my  baby  (whichever  he  is);  and  I  respectfully  propose  that  Mr. 


THE    FATAL   CRADLB.  433 

Smallchild  should  take  loth  the  children,  and  so  make  quite  sure 
that  he  has  really  got  possession  of  his  own  son." 

The  only  immediate  objection  to  this  ingenious  proposition  was 
started  by  the  doctor,  who  sarcastically  inquired  of  Simon, "  what 
he  thought  Mrs.  Heavysides  would  say  to  it  ?"  The  carpenter  con- 
fessed that  this  consideration  had  escaped  him,  and  that  Mrs.  Heavy- 
sides  was  only  too  likely  to  be  an  irremovable  obstacle  in  the  way 
of  the  proposed  arrangement.  The  witnesses  all  thought  so  too; 
and  Heavysides  and  his  idea  were  dismissed  together,  after  Simon 
had  first  gratefully  expressed  his  entire  readiness  to  leave  it  all  to 
the  captain. 

"  Very  well,  gentlemen,"  said  Captain  Gillop.  "  As  commander 
on  board,  I  reckon  next  after  the  husbands  in  the  matter  of  respon- 
sibility. I  have  considered  this  difficulty  in  all  its  bearings,  and 
I'm  prepared  to  deal  with  it.  The  Voice  of  Nature  (which  you 
proposed,  Mr.  Purling)  has  been  found  to  fail.  The  tossing  up  for 
it  (which  you  proposed,  Mr.  Sims)  doesn't  square  altogether  with 
my  notions  of  what's  right  in  a  very  serious  business.  No,  sir !  I've 
got  my  own  plan ;  and  I'm  now  about  to  try  it.  Follow  me  below, 
gentlemen,  to  the  steward's  pantry." 

The  witnesses  looked  round  on  one  another  in  the  profoundest 
astonishment — and  followed. 

"  Pickerel,"  said  the  captain,  addressing  the  steward,  "  bring  out 
the  scales." 

The  scales  were  of  the  ordinary  kitchen  sort,  with  a  tin  tray  on 
one  side  to  hold  the  commodity  to  be  weighed,  and  a  stout  iron 
slab  on  the  other  to  support  the  weights.  Pickerel  placed  these 
scales  upon  a  neat  little  pantry  table,  fitted  on  the  ball-and-socket 
principle,  so  as  to  save  the  breaking  of  crockery  by  swinging  with 
the  motion  of  the  ship. 

"  Put  a  clean  duster  in  the  tray,"  said  the  captain.  ''Doctor,"  he 
continued,  when  this  had  been  done,  "  shut  the  doors  of  the  sleep- 
ing-berths (for  fear  of  the  women  hearing  any  thing),  and  oblige  me 
by  bringing  those  two  babies  in  here." 

"Oh,  sir!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Drabble,  who  had  been  peeping  guilt- 
ily into  the  pantry—"  oh,  don't  hurt  the  little  dears !  If  any  body 
suffers,  let  it  be  me  !" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  if  you  please,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain.  "And 
keep  the  secret  of  these  proceedings,  if  you  wish  to  keep  your  place. 
If  the  ladies  ask  for  their  children,  say  they  will  have  them  in  ten 
minutes'  time." 

The  doctor  came  in,  and  set  down  the  clothes-basket  cradle  on 
the  pantry  floor.  Captain  Gillop  immediately  put  on  his  spectacles, 
and  closely  examined  the  two  unconscious  innocents  who  lay  be- 
neath him. 


434  THE    FATAL   CRADLE. 

"  Six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  other,"  said  the  captain.  "  I 
don't  see  any  diiference  between  them.  Wait  a  bit,  though  !  Yes, 
I  do.  One's  a  bald  baby.  Very  good.  We'll  begin  with  that  one. 
Doctor,  strip  the  bald  baby,  and  put  him  in  the  scales." 

The  bald  baby  protested — in  his  own  language — but  in  vain.  In 
two  minutes  he  was  flat  on  his  back  in  the  tin  tray,  with  the  clean 
duster  under  him  to  take  the  chill  off. 

"  Weigh  him  accurately,  Pickerel,"  continued  the  captain.  "  Weigh 
him,  if  necessary,  to  an  eighth  of  an  ounce.  Gentlemen !  watch  this 
proceeding  closely;  it's  a  very  important  one." 

While  the  steward  was  weighing  and  the  witnesses  were  watch- 
ing, Captain  Gillop  asked  his  first  mate  for  the  log-book  of  the 
ship,  and  for  pen  and  ink. 

"How  much,  Pickerel?"  asked  the  captain,  opening  the  book. 

"  Seven  pounds  one  ounce  and  a  quarter,"  answered  the  steward. 

"  Right,  gentlemen  ?"  pursued  the  captain. 

"  Quite  right,"  said  the  witnesses. 

"Bald  child  —  distinguished  as  Number  One  —  weight,  seven 
pounds  one  ounce  and  a  quarter  (avoirdupois),"  repeated  the  cap- 
tain, writing  down  the  entry  in  the  log-book.  "  Very  good.  We'll 
put  the  bald  baby  back  now,  doctor,  and  try  the  hairy  one  next." 

The  hairy  one  protested — also  in  his  own  language — and  also  in 
vain. 

"  How  much,  Pickerel  ?"  asked  the  captain. 

"  Six  pounds  fourteen  ounces  and  three-quarters,"  replied  the 
steward. 

"  Right,  gentlemen  ?"  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Quite  right,"  answered  the  witnesses. 

"  Hairy  child — distinguished  as  Number  Two — weight,  six  pounds 
fourteen  ounces  and  three-quarters  (avoirdupois),"  repeated  and 
wrote  the  captain.  "Much  obliged  to  you,  Jolly  —  that  will  do. 
When  you  have  got  the  other  baby  back  in  the  -cradle,  tell  Mrs. 
Drabble  neither  of  them  must  be  taken  out  of  it  till  further  orders  ; 
and  then  be  so  good  as  to  join  me  and  these  gentlemen  on  deck. 
If  any  thing  of  a  discussion  rises  up  among  us,  we  won't  run  the 
risk  of  being  heard  in  the  sleeping-berths."  With  these  words  (  ap- 
tain  Gillop  led  the  way  on  deck,  and  the  first  mate  followed  witli 
the  log-book  and  the  pen  and  ink. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  began  the  captain,  when  the  doctor  had  join- 
ed the  assembly,  "my  first  mate  will  open  these  proceedings  by 
reading  from  the  log  a  statement  which  I  have  written  myself,  re- 
specting this  business,  from  beginning  to  end.  If  you  find  it  all 
equally  correct  with  the  statement  of  what  the  two  children  weigh, 
I'll  trouble  you  to  sign  it,  in  your  quality  of  witnesses,  on  the  spot." 

The  first  mate  read  the  narrative,  and  the  witnesses  signed  it,  as 


THE   FATAL   CRADLE.  435 

perfectly  correct.  Captain  Gillop  then  cleared  his  throat,  and  ad- 
<ln— - 1 -il  hU  expectant  audience  in  these  words: 

"  You'll  all  agree  with  me,  gentlemen,  that  justice  is  justice,  and 
that  like  must  to  like.  Here's  my  ship  of  five  hundred  tons,  fitted 
with  her  spars  accordingly.  Say  she's  a  schooner  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  tons,  the  veriest  landsman  among  you,  in  that  case,  wouldn't  put 
such  masts  as  these  into  her.  Say,  on  the  other  hand,  she's  an  In- 
diiiinan  of  a  thousand  tons,  would  our  spars  (excellent  good  sticks 
as  they  are,  gentlemen)  be  suitable  for  a  vessel  of  that  capacity  ? 
Certainly  not.  A  schooner's  spars  to  a  schooner,  and  a  ship's  spars 
to  a  ship,  in  fit  and  fair  proportion." 

Here  the  captain  paused,  to  let  the  opening  of  his  speech  sink 
well  into  the  minds  of  the  audience.  The  audience  encouraged  him 
with  the  parliamentary  cry  of  "  Hear!  hear!"  The  captain  went  on: 

"  In  the  serious  difficulty  which  now  besets  us,  gentlemen,  I  take 
my  stand  on  the  principle  which  I  have  just  stated  to  you.  And 
my  decision  is  as  follows :  Let  us  give  the  heaviest  of  the  two  ba- 
bies to  the  heaviest  of  the  two  women ;  and  let  the  lightest  then 
fall,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  the  other.  In  a  week's  time,  if  this 
weather  holds,  we  shall  all  (please  God)  be  in  port;  and  if  there's 
a  1  x-tter  way  out  of  this  mess  than  my  way,  the  parsons  and  lawyers 
ashore  may  find  it,  and  welcome." 

With  those  words  the  captain  closed  his  oration;  and  the  assem- 
bled council  immediately  sanctioned  the  proposal  submitted  to 
them,  with  all  the  unanimity  of  men  who  had  no  idea  of  their  own 
to  set  up  in  opposition. 

Mr.  Jolly  was  next  requested  (as  the  only  available  authority)  to 
settle  the  question  of  weight  between  Mrs.  Smallchild  and  Mrs. 
Ileavysides,  and  decided  it  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  in  favor 
of  the  carpenter's  wife,  on  the  indisputable  ground  that  she  was  the 
tallest  and  stoutest  woman  of  the  two.  Thereupon  the  bald  baby, 
"distinguished  as  Number  One,"  was  taken  into  Mrs.  Heavysides's 
cabin;  and  the  hairy  baby,  "distinguished  as  Number  Two,"  was 
accorded  to  Mrs.  Smallchild ;  the  Voice  of  Nature,  neither  in  the 
one  case  nor  in  the  other,  raisinir  the  slightest  objection  to  the  cap- 
tain's principle  of  distribution.  Before  seven  o'clock  Mr.  Jolly  re- 
ported that  the  mothers  and  sons,  larboard  and  starboard,  were  as 
happy  and  comfortable  as  any  four  people  on  board  ship  could  pos- 
sibly wish  to  be;  and  the  captain  thereupon  dismissed  the  council 
with  these  parting  remarks: 

"We'll  get  the  studding- sails  on  the  ship  now,  gentlemen,  and 
make  the  best  of  our  way  to  port.  Breakfast,  Pickerel,  in  half  an 
hour,  and  plenty  of  it!  I  doubt  if  that  unfortunate  Mrs.  Drabble 
has  heard  the  last  of  this  business  yet.  We  must  all  lend  a  hand, 
gentlemen,  and  pull  her  through  if  we  can.  In  other  respects  the 


436  THE   FATAL  CRADLE. 

job's  over,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned ;  and  the  parsons  and  lawyers 
must  settle  it  ashore." 

The  parsons  and  the  lawyers  did  nothing  of  the  sort,  for  the  plain 
reason  that  nothing  was  to  be  done.  In  ten  days  the  ship  was  in 
port,  and  the  news  was  broken  to  the  two  mothers.  Each  one  of 
the  two  adored  her  baby,  after  ten  days'  experience  of  it — and  each 
one  of  the  two  was  in  Mrs.  Drabble's  condition  of  not  knowing 
which  was  which. 

Every  test  was  tried.  First,  the  test  by  the  doctor,  who  only  re- 
peated what  he  had  told  the  captain.  Secondly,  the  test  by  person- 
al resemblance  ;  which  failed  in  consequence  of  the  light  hair,  blue 
eyes,  and  Roman  noses  shared  in  common  by  the  fathers,  and  the 
light  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  no  noses  worth  mentioning  shared  in  com- 
mon by  the  children.  Thirdly,  the  test  of  Mrs.  Drabble,  which  be- 
gan and  ended  in  fierce  talking  on  one  side  and  floods  of  tears  on 
the  other.  Fourthly,  the  test  by  legal  decision,  which  broke  down 
through  the  total  absence  of  any  instructions  for  the  law  to  act  on. 
Fifthly,  and  lastly,  the  test  by  appeal  to  the  husbands,  which  fell  to 
the  ground  in  consequence  of  the  husbands  knowing  nothing  about 
the  matter  in  hand.  The  captain's  barbarous  test  by  weight  remain- 
ed the  test  still — and  here  am  I,  a  man  of  the  lower  order,  without 
a  penny  to  bless  myself  with,  in  consequence. 

"  Yes !  I  was  the  bald  baby  of  that  memorable  period.  My  excess 
in  weight  settled  my  destiny  in  life.  The  fathers  and  mothers  on 
either  side  kept  the  babies  according  to  the  captain's  principle  of 
distribution,  in  despair  of  knowing  what  else  to  do.  Mr.  Small- 
child,  who  was  sharp  enough  when  not  seasick,  made  his  fortune. 
Simon  Heavysides  persisted  in  increasing  his  family,  and  died  in  the 
work-house. 

Judge  for  yourself  (as  Mr.  Jolly  might  say)  how  the  two  boys 
born  at  sea  fared  in  after-life.  I,  the  bald  baby,  have  seen  nothing 
of  the  hairy  baby  for  years  past.  He  may  be  short,  like  Mr.  Small- 
child — but  I  happen  to  know  that  he  is  wonderfully  like  Heavysides, 
deceased,  in  the  face.  I  may  be  tall,  like  the  carpenter — but  I  have 
the  Smallchild  eyes,  hair,  and  expression,  notwithstanding.  Make 
what  you  can  of  that !  You  will  find  it  come,  in  the  end,  to  the  same 
thing.  Smallchild,  junior,  prospers  in  the  world,  because  he  weigh- 
ed six  pounds,  fourteen  ounces  and  three  -  quarters.  Heavysides, 
junior,  fails  in  the  world,  because  he  weighed  seven  pounds  one 
ounce  and  a  quarter.  Such  is  destiny,  and  such  is  life.  I'll  never 
forgive  my  destiny  as  long  as  I  live.  There  is  my  grievance.  I 
wish  you  good-morning. 


<T>T 


BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIG!" 


'BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIG!" 

A  SAILOR'S  STORY. 


I  HAVE  got  an  alarming  confession  to  make.  I  am  haunted  by  a 
Ghost. 

If  you  were  to  guess  for  a  hundred  years,  you  would  never  guess 
what  ray  ghost  is.  I  shall  make  you  laugh  to  begin  with — and  af- 
terward I  shall  make  your  flesh  creep.  My  Ghost  is  the  ghost  of  a 
Bedroom  Candlestick. 

Yes,  a  bedroom  candlestick  and  candle,  or  a  flat  candlestick  and 
candle — put  it  which  way  you  like — that  is  what  haunts  me.  I  wish 
it  was  something  pleasanter  and  more  out  of  the  common  way ;  a 
beautiful  lady,  or  a  mine  of  gold  and  silver,  or  a  cellar  of  wine  and 
a  coach  and  horses,  and  such  like.  But,  being  what  it  is,  I  must 
take  it  for  what  it  is,  and  make  the  best  of  it ;  and  I  shall  thank 
you  kindly  if  you  will  help  me  out  by  doing  the  same. 

I  am  not  a  scholar  myself,  but  I  make  bold  to  believe  that  the 
haunting  of  any  man  with  any  thing  under  the  sun  begins  with  the 
frightening  of  him.  At  any  rate,  the  haunting  of  me  with  a  bed- 
room candlestick  and  candle  began  with  the  frightening  of  me  with 
a  bedroom  candlestick  and  candle — the  frightening  of  me  half  out 
of  my  life  ;  and,  for  the  time  being,  the  frightening  of  me  altogether 
out  of  my  wits.  That  is  not  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  confess  before 
stating  the  particulars;  but  perhaps  you  will  be  the  readier  to  be- 
lieve that  I  am  not  a  downright  coward,  because  you  find  me  bold 
enough  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  already,  to  my  own  great  disad- 
vantage so  far. 

Here  are  the  particulars,  as  well  as  I  can  put  them : 

I  was  apprenticed  to  the  sea  when  I  was  about  as  tall  as  my  own 
walking  stick ;  and  I  made  good  enough  use  of  my  time  to  be  fit 
tor  a  mate's  berth  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  years. 

It  was  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  eighteen,  or  nineteen,  I 
am  not  quite  certain  which,  that  I  reached  the  before-mentioned 
age  of  twenty-five.  You  will  please  to  excuse  my  memory  not  be- 
ing very  good  for  date-,  names,  numbers,  places,  and  such  like.  No 
fear,  though,  about  the  particulars  I  have  undertaken  to  tell  you  of; 


438 

I  have  got  them  all  ship-shape  in  my  recollection ;  I  can  see  them, 
at  this  moment,  as  clear  as  noonday  in  my  own  mind.  But  there  is 
a  mist  over  what  went  before,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  a  mist 
likewise  over  much  that  came  after — and  it's  not  very  likely  to  lift 
at  my  time  of  life,  is  it  ? 

"\Vell,  in  eighteen  hundred  and  eighteen,  or  nineteen,  when  there 
was  peace  in  our  part  of  the  world — and  not  before  it  was  wanted, 
you  will  say  —  there  was  fighting,  of  a  certain  scampering,  scram- 
bling kind,  going  on  in  that  old  battle-field  which  we  sea-fariug 
men  know  by  the  name  of  the  Spanish  Main. 

The  possessions  that  belonged  to  the  Spaniards  in  South  America 
had  broken  into  open  mutiny  and  declared  for  themselves  years  be- 
fore. There  was  plenty  of  bloodshed  between  the  new  Government 
and  the  old ;  but  the  new  had  got  the  best  of  it,  for  the  most  part, 
under  one  General  Bolivar — a  famous  man  in  his  time,  though  he 
seems  to  have  dropped  out  of  people's  memories  now.  Englishmen 
and  Irishmen  with  a  turn  for  fighting,  and  nothing  particular  to  do 
at  home,  joined  the  general  as  volunteers ;  and  some  of  our  mer- 
chants here  found  it  a  good  venture  to  send  supplies  across  the 
ocean  to  the  popular  side.  There  was  risk  enough,  of  course,  in  do- 
ing this;  but  where  one  speculation  of  the  kind  succeeded,  it  made 
up  for  two,  at  the  least,  that  failed.  And  that's  the  true  principle 
of  trade,  wherever  I  have  met  with  it,  all  the  world  over. 

Among  the  Englishmen  who  were  concerned  in  this  Spanish- 
American  business,  I,  your  humble  servant,  happened  in  a  small  way 
to  be  one. 

I  was  then  mate  of  a  brig  belonging  to  a  certain  firm  in  the  City, 
which  drove  a  sort  of  general  trade,  mostly  in  queer  out-of-the-way 
places,  as  far  from  home  as  possible ;  and  which  freighted  the  brig, 
in  the  year  I  am  speaking  of,  with  a  cargo  of  gunpowder  for  Gen- 
eral Bolivar  and  his  volunteers.  Nobody  knew  any  thing  about  our 
instructions,  when  we  sailed,  except  the  captain ;  and  he  didn't  half 
seem  to  like  them.  I  can't  rightly  say  how  many  barrels  of  powder 
we  had  on  board,  or  how  much  each  barrel  held  —  I  only  know  we 
had  no  other  cargo.  The  name  of  the  brig  was  the  Good  Intent — a 
queer  name  enough,  you  will  tell  me,  for  a  vessel  laden  with  gun- 
powder, and  sent  to  help  a  revolution.  And  as  far  as  this  particu- 
lar voyage  was  concerned,  so  it  was.  I  mean  that  for  a  joke,  and  I 
hope  you  will  encourage  me  by  laughing  at  it. 

The  Good  Intent  was  the  craziest  old  tub  of  a  vessel  I  ever  went 
to  sea  in,  and  the  worst  found  in  all  respects.  She  was  two  hundred 
and  thirty,  or  two  hundred  and  eighty  tons  burden,  I  forget  which ; 
and  she  had  a  crew  of  eight,  all  told — nothing  like  as  many  as  we 
ought  by  rights  to  have  had  to  work  the  brig.  However,  we  were 
well  and  honestly  paid  our  wages ;  and  we  had  to  set  that  against 


"BLOW  VP  WITH  THE  BRIG!"  439 

the  chance  of  foundering  at  sea,  and,  on  this  occasion,  likewise  the 
dinner  of  being  blown  tip  into  the  bargain. 

In  consideration  of  the  nature  of  our  cargo,  we  were  harassed 
with  new  regulations,  which  we  didn't  at  all  like,  relative  to  smok- 
ing our  pipes  and  lighting  our  lanterns;  and,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 
thf  captain,  who  made  the  regulations,  preached  what  he  didn't 
practice.  Not  a  man  of  us  was  allowed  to  have  a  bit  of  lighted  can- 
<llc  in  his  hand  when  he  went  below — except  the  skipper;  and  he 
iiM'd  his  light,  when  he  turned  in,  or  when  he  looked  over  his  charts 
on  the  cabin  table,  just  as  usual. 

This  light  was  a  common  kitchen  candle  or  "  dip,"  and  it  stood 
in  an  old  battered  flat  candlestick,  with  all  the  japan  worn  and 
melted  off,  and  all  the  tin  showing  through.  It  would  have  been 
more  seaman-like  and  suitable  in  every  respect  if  he  had  had  a  lamp 
or  a  lantern ;  but  he  stuck  to  Jus  old  candlestick ;  and  that  same 
old  candlestick  has  ever  afterward  stuck  to  me.  That's  another 
joke,  if  you  please,  and  a  better  one  than  the  first,  in  my  opinion. 

Well  (I  said  "  well "  before,  but  it's  a  word  that  helps  a  man  on 
like),  we  sailed  in  the  brig,  and  shaped  our  course,  first,  for  the  Vir- 
gin Islands,  in  the  West  Indies ;  and,  after  sighting  them,  we  made 
for  the  Leeward  Islands  next,  and  then  stood  on  due  south,  till  the 
lookout  at  the  mast-head  hailed  the  deck  and  said  he  saw  land. 
That  land  was  the  coast  of  South  America.  We  had  had  a  wonder- 
ful voyage  so  far.  We  had  lost  none  of  our  spars  or  sails,  and  not  a 
man  of  us  had  been  harassed  to  death  at  the  pumps.  It  wasn't  often 
the  Oood  Intent  made  such  a  voyage  as  that,  I  can  tell  you. 

I  was  sent  aloft  to  make  sure  about  the  land,  and  I  did  make  sure 
of  it, 

When  I  reported  the  same  to  the  skipper,  he  went  below,  and  had 
a  look  at  his  letter  of  instructions  and  the  chart.  When  he  came 
on  deck  again,  he  altered  our  course  a  trifle  to  the  eastward — I  for- 
get the  point  on  the  compass,  but  that  don't  matter.  What  I  do  re- 
member is,  that  it  was  dark  before  we  closed  hi  with  the  land.  We 
kept  the  lead  going,  and  hove  the  brig  to  in  from  four  to  five  fath- 
oms water,  or  it  might  be  six — I  can't  say  for  certain.  I  kept  a  sharp 
eye  to  the  drift  of  the  vessel,  none  of  us  knowing  how  the  currents 
ran  on  that  coast.  We  all  wondered  why  the  skipper  didn't  an- 
chor ;  but  he  said  No,  he  must  first  show  a  light  at  the  foretop- 
mast-head,  and  wait  for  an  answering  light  on  shore.  We  did  wait, 
and  nothing  of  the  sort  appeared.  It  was  starlight  and  calm. 
What  little  wind  there  was  came  in  puffs  off  the  land.  I  suppose 
we  waited,  drifting  a  little  to  the  westward,  as  I  made  it  out,  best 
part  of  an  hour  before  any  thing  happened — and  then,  instead  of 
seeing  the  light  on  shore,  we  saw  a  boat  coming  toward  us,  rowed 
by  two  men  only. 


440  "BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIG!" 

We  hailed  them,  and  they  answered  "  Friends !"  and  hailed  us  by 
our  name.  They  came  on  board.  One  of  them  was  an  Irishman, 
and  the  other  was  a  coffee-colored  native  pilot,  who  jabbered  a  little 
English. 

The  Irishman  handed  a  note  to  our  skipper,  who  showed  it  to 
me.  It  informed  us  that  the  part  of  the  coast  we  were  off  was  not 
oversafe  for  discharging  our  cargo,  seeing  that  spies  of  the  enemy 
(that  is  to  say,  of  the  old  Government)  had  been  taken  and  shot  in 
the  neighborhood  the  day  before.  We  might  trust  the  brig  to  the 
native  pilot ;  and  he  had  his  instructions  to  take  us  to  another  part 
of  the  coast.  The  note  was  signed  by  the  proper  parties  ;  so  we  let 
the  Irishman  go  back  alone  in  the  boat,  and  allowed  the  pilot  to 
exercise  his  lawful  authority  over  the  brig.  He  kept  us  stretching 
off  from  the  land  till  noon  the  next  day — his  instructions,  seeming- 
ly, ordering  him  to  keep  us  well  out  of  sight  of  the  shore.  We  only 
altered  our  course  in  the  afternoon,  so  as  to  close  in  with  the  land 
again  a  little  before  midnight. 

This  same  pilot  was  about  as  ill-looking  a  vagabond  as  ever  I 
saw ;  a  skinny,  cowardly,  quarrelsome  mongrel,  who  swore  at  the 
men  in  the  vilest  broken  English,  till  they  were  every  one  of  them 
ready  to  pitch  him  overboard.  The  skipper  kept  them  quiet,  and 
I  kept  them  quiet ;  for  the  pilot  being  given  us  by  our  instructions, 
we  were  bound  to  make  the  best  of  him.  Near  night-fall,  however, 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world  to  avoid  it,  I  was  unlucky  enough  to 
quarrel  with  him. 

He  wanted  to  go  below  with  his  pipe,  and  I  stopped  him,  of  course, 
because  it  was  contrary  to  orders.  Upon  that  he  tried  to  hustle  by 
me,  and  I  put  him  away  with  my  hand.  I  never  meant  to  push  him 
down ;  but  somehow  I  did.  He  picked  himself  up  as  quick  as  light- 
ning, and  pulled  out  his  knife.  I  snatched  it  out  of  his  hand,  slap- 
ped his  murderous  face  for  him,  and  threw  his  weapon  overboard. 
He  gave  me  one  ugly  look,  and  walked  aft.  I  didn't  think  much  of 
the  look  then,  but  I  remembered  it  a  little  too  well  afterward. 

We  were  close  in  with  the  land  again,  just  as  the  wind  failed  us, 
between  eleven  and  twelve  that  night,  and  dropped  our  anchor  by 
the  pilot's  directions. 

It  was  pitch-dark,  and  a  dead,  airless  ca^tm.  The  skipper  was  on 
deck,  with  two  of  our  best  men  for  watch.  The  rest  were  below, 
except  the  pilot,  who  coiled  himself  up,  more  like  a  snake  than  a 
man,  on  the  forecastle.  It  was  not  my  watch  till  four  in  the  morn- 
ing. But  I  didn't  like  the  look  of  the  night,  or  the  pilot,  or  the 
state  of  things  generally,  and  I  shook  myself  down  on  deck  to  get 
my  nap  there,  and  be  ready  for  any  thing  at  a  moment's  notice. 
The  last  I  remember  was  the  skipper  whispering  to  me  that  lie 
didn't  like  the  look  of  things  either,  and  that  he  would  go  below 


"BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIG!'*  441 

and  consult  his  instructions  again.  That  is  the  last  I  remember,  be- 
fore the  slow,  heavy,  regular  roll  of  the  old  brig  on  the  groundswell 
rocked  me  off  to  sleep. 

I  was  awoke  by  a  scuffle  on  the  forecastle  and  a  gag  in  my  mouth. 
There  was  a  man  on  my  breast  and  a  man  on  my  legs,  and  I  was 
bound  hand  and  foot  in  half  a  minute. 

The  brig  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Spaniards.  They  were  swarm- 
ing all  over  her.  I  heard  six  heavy  splashes  in  the  water,  one  after 
another.  I  saw  the  captain  stabbed  to  the  heart  as  he  came  run- 
ning up  the  companion,  and  I  heard  a  seventh  splash  in  the  water. 
Except  myself,  every  soul  of  us  on  board  had  been  murdered  and 
thrown  into  the  sea.  Why  I  was  left,  I  couldn't  think,  till  I  saw 
the  pilot  stoop  over  me  with  a  lantern  and  look,  to  make  sure  of 
who  I  was.  There  was  a  devilish  grin  on  his  face,  and  he  nodded 
his  head  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  You  were  the  man  who  bustled 
me  down  and  slapped  my  face,  and  I  mean  to  play  the  game  of  cat 
and  mouse  with  you  in  return  for  it ! 

I  could  neither  move  nor  speak,  but  I  could  see  the  Spaniards 
take  off  the  main  hatch  and  rig  the  purchases  for  getting  up  the 
cargo.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  I  heard  the  sweeps  of  a 
schooner,  or  other  small  vessel,  in  the  water.  The  strange  craft  was 
laid  alongside  of  us,  and  the  Spaniards  set  to  work  to  discharge  our 
cargo  into  her.  They  all  woiked  hard  except  the  pilot;  and  he 
came  from  time  to  time,  with  his  lantern,  to  have  another  look  at 
me,  and  to  grin  and  nod  always  in  the  same  devilish  way.  I  am  old 
enough  now  not  to  be  ashamed  of  confessing  the  truth,  and  I  don't 
mind  acknowledging  that  the  pilot  frightened  me. 

The  fright,  and  the  bonds,  and  the  gag,  and  the  not  being  able 
to  stir  hand  or  foot,  had  pretty  nigh  worn  me  out  by  the  time  the 
Spaniards  gave  over  work.  This  was  just  as  the  dawn  broke.  They 
had  shifted  good  part  of  our  cargo  on  board  their  vessel,  but  noth- 
ing like  all  of  it.  and  they  were  sharp  enough  to  be  off  with  what 
they  had  got  before  daylight. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  by  this  time  to 
the  worst  I  could  think  of.  The  pilot,  it  was  clear  enough,  was  one 
of  the  spies  of  the  enemy,  who  had  wormed  himself  into  the  confi- 
dence of  our  consignees  without  being  suspected.  He,  or  more 
likely  his  employers,  had  got  knowledge  enough  of  us  to  suspect 
what  our  cargo  was;  we  had  been  anchored  for  the  night  in  the 
safest  berth  for  them  to  surprise  us  in;  and  we  had  paid  the  pen- 
alty of  having  a  small  crew,  and  consequently  an  insufficient  watch. 
All  this  was  clear  enough  —  but  what  did  the  pilot  mean  to  do 
with  me? 

On  the  word  of  a  man,  it  makes  my  flesh  creep  now,  only  to  tell 
you  what  he  did  with  me. 

19 


442  "BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIG!" 

After  all  the  rest  of  them  were  out  of  the  brig,  except  the  pilot 
and  two  Spanish  seamen,  these  last  took  me  up,  bound  and  gagged 
p.s  .1  was,  lowered  me  into  the  hold  of  the  vessel,  and  laid  me  along 
on  the  floor,  lashing  me  to  it  with  ropes'  ends,  so  that  I  could  just 
turn  from  one  side  to  the  other,  but  could  not  roll  myself  fairly 
over,  so  as  to  change  my  place.  They  then  left  me.  Both  of  them 
were  the  worse  for  liquor ;  but  the  devil  of  a  pilot  was  sober — mind 
that ! — as  sober  as  I  am  at  the  present  moment. 

I  lay  in  the  dark  for  a  little  while,  with  my  heart  thumping  as  if 
it  was  going  to  jump  out  of  me.  I  lay  about  five  minutes  or  so 
when  the  pilot  came  down  into  the  hold  alone. 

He  had  the  captain's  cursed  flat  candlestick  and  a  carpenter's  awl 
in  one  hand,  and  a  long  thin  twist  of  cotton-yarn,  well  oiled,  in  the 
other.  He  put  the  candlestick,  with  a  new  "  dip  "  candle  lighted 
in  it,  down  on  the  floor  about  two  feet  from  my  face,  and  close 
against  the  side  of  the  vessel.  The  light  was  feeble  enough ;  but 
it  was  sufficient  to  show  a  dozen  barrels  of  gunpowder  or  more  left 
all  round  me  in  the  hold  of  the  brig.  I  began  to  suspect  what  he 
was  after  the  moment  I  noticed  the  barrels.  The  horrors  laid  hold 
of  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  sweat  poured  off  my  face  like 
•vyater. 

I  saw  him  go  next  to  one  of  the  barrels  of  powder  standing 
against  the  side  of  the  vessel  in  a  line  with  the  candle,  and  about 
three  feet,  or  rather  better,  away  from  it.  He  bored  a  holo  in  the 
side  of  the  barrel  with  his  awl,  and  the  horrid  powder  came  trick- 
ling out,  as  black  as  hell,  and  dripped  into  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
which  ho  held  to  catch  it.  When  he  had  got  a  good  handful,  he 
stopped  up  the  holo  by  jamming  one  end  of  his  oiled  twist  of  cot- 
ton-yarn fast  into  it,  and  he  then  rubbed  the  powder  into  the  whole 
length  of  the  yarn  till  he  had  blackened  every  hair-breadth  of  it. 

The  next  thing  he  did — as  true  as  I  sit  here,  as  true  as  the  heaven 
above  us  all — the  next  thing  he  did  was  to  carry  the  free  end  of  his 
long,  lean,  black,  frightful  slow-match  to  the  lighted  candle  along- 
side my  face.  He  tied  it  (the  bloody-minded  villain!)  in  several 
folds  round  the  tallow  dip,  about  a  third  of  the  distance  down, 
measuring  from  the  flame  of  the  wick  to  the  lip  of  the  candlestick. 
He  did  that ;  he  looked  to  see  that  my  lashings  were  all  safe ;  and 
then  he  put  his  face  close  to  mine,  and  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  Blow 
up  with  the  brig !" 

He  was  on  deck  again  the  moment  after,  and  he  and  the  two 
others  shoved  the  hatch  on  over  me.  At  the  farthest  end  from 
where  I  lay  they  had  not  fitted  it  down  quite  true,  and  I  saw  a 
blink  of  daylight  glimmering  in  when  I  looked  in  that  direction. 
I  heard  the  sweeps  of  the  schooner  fall  into  the  water — splash! 
splash !  fainter  and  fainter,  as  they  swept  the  vessel  out  in  ilia  dead 


"  BLOW   UP   WITH   THE    BEIG  !"  443 

calm,  to  be  ready  for  the  wind  in  the  offing.  Fainter  and  fainter, 
splash,  splash  !  for  ;t  quarter  of  an  hour  or  more. 

While  those  sounds  were  in  my  ears,  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
candle. 

It  had  been  freshly  lighted.  If  left  to  itself,  it  would  burn  for 
between  six  and  seven  hours.  The  slow-match  was  twisted  round 
it  about  a  third  of  the  way  down,  and  therefore  the  flame  would  be 
about  two  hours  reaching  it.  There  I  lay,  gagged,  bound,  lashed  to 
the  floor ;  seeing  my  own  life  burning  down  with  the  candle  by  my 
side — there  I  lay,  alone  on  the  sea,  doomed  to  be  blown  to  atoms, 
and  to  see  that  doom  drawing  on,  nearer  and  nearer  with  every 
fresh  second  of  time,  through  nigh  on  two  hours  to  come ;  powerless 
to  help  myself,  and  speechless  to  call  for  help  to  others.  The  won- 
der to  me  is  that  I  didn't  cheat  the  flame,  the  slow-match,  and  the 
powder,  and  die  of  the  horror  of  my  situation  before  my  first  half- 
hour  was  out  in  the  hold  of  the  brig. 

I  can't  exactly  say  how  long  I  kept  the  command  of  my  senses 
after  I  had  ceased  to  hear  the  splash  of  the  schooner's  sweeps  in 
the  water.  I  can  trace  back  every  thing  I  did  and  every  thing  I 
thought,  up  to  a  certain  point ;  but,  once  past  that,  I  get  all  abroad, 
and  lose  myself  in  my  memory  now,  much  as  I  lost  myself  in  my 
own  feelings  at  the  time. 

The  moment  the  hatch  was  covered  over  me,  I  began,  as  every 
other  man  would  have  begun  in  my  place,  with  a  frantic  effort  to 
free  my  hands.  In  the  mad  panic  I  was  in,  I  cut  my  flesh  with  the 
lashings  as  if  they  had  been  knife-blades,  but  I  never  stirred  them. 
There  was  less  chance  still  of  freeing  my  legs,  or  of  tearing  myself 
from  the  fastenings  that  held  me  to  the  floor.  I  gave  in  when  I  was 
all  but  suffocated  for  want  of  breath.  The  gag,  you  will  please  to 
remember,  was  a  terrible  enemy  to  me  ;  I  could  only  breathe  freely 
through  my  nose— and  that  is  but  a  poor  vent  when  a  man  is  strain- 
ing his  strength  as  far  as  ever  it  will  go. 

I  gave  in  and  lay  quiet,  and  got  my  breath  again,  my  eyes  glaring 
and  straining  at  the  candle  all  the  time. 

While  I  was  staring  at  it,  the  notion  struck  me  of  trying  to  blow 
out  the  flame  by  pumping  a  long  breath  at  it  suddenly  through  my 
nostrils.  It  was  too  high  above  me,  and  too  far  away  from  me,  to 
be  reached  in  that  fashion.  I  tried,  and  tried,  and  tried ;  and  then 
I  gave  in  again,  and  lay  quiet  again,  always  with  my  eyes  glaring  at 
the  candle,  and  the  candle  glaring  at  me.  The  splash  of  the  schoon- 
er's sweeps  was  very  faint  by  this  time.  I  could  only  just  hear  them 
in  the  morning  stillness.  Splash  !  splash !  —  fainter  and  fainter  — 
splash!  splash! 

Without  exactly  feeling  my  mind  going,  I  began  to  feel  it  getting 
queer  as  early  as  this.  The  snuff  of  the  candle  was  growing  taller 


444  "BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIG!** 

and  taller,  and  the  length  of  tallow  between  the  flame  and  the  slow- 
match,  which  was  the  length  of  my  life,  was  getting  shorter  and  short- 
er. I  calculated  that  I  had  rather  less  than  an  hour  and  a  half  to  live. 

An  hour  and  a  half!  Was  there  a  chance  in  that  time  of  a  boat 
pulling  off  to  the  brig  from  shore  ?  Whether  the  land  near  which 
the  vessel  was  anchored  was  in  possession  of  our  side,  or  in  posses- 
sion of  the  enemy's  side,  I  made  out  that  they  must,  sooner  or  later, 
send  to  hail  the  brig  merely  because  she  was  a  stranger  in  those 
parts.  The  question  for  me  was,  how  soon  ?  The  sun  had  not  risen 
yet,  as  I  could  tell  by  looking  through  the  chink  in  the  hatch. 
There  was  no  coast  village  near  us,  as  we  all  knew,  before  the  brig 
was  seized,  by  seeing  no  lights  on  shore.  There  was  no  wind,  as  I 
could  tell  by  listening,  to  bring  any  strange  vessel  near.  If  I  had 
had  six  hours  to  live,  there  might  have  been  a  chance  for  me,  reck- 
oning from  sunrise  to  noon.  But  with  an  hour  and  a  half,  which 
had  dwindled  to  an  hour  and  a  quarter  by  this  time — or,  in  other 
words,  with  the  earliness  of  the  morning,  the  uninhabited  coast,  and 
the  dead  calm  all  against  me — there  was  not  the  ghost  of  a  chance. 
As  I  felt  that,  I  had  another  struggle — the  last — with  my  bonds, 
and  only  cut  myself  the  deeper  for  my  pains. 

I  gave  in  once  more,  and  lay  quiet,  and  listened  for  the  splash  of 
the  sweeps. 

Gone !  Not  a  sound  could  I  hear  but  the  blowing  of  a  fish  now 
and  then  on  the  surface  of  the  sea,  and  the  creak  of  the  brig's  crazy 
old  spars,  as  she  rolled  gently  from  side  to  side  with  the  little  swell 
there  was  on  the  quiet  water. 

An  hour  and  a  quarter.  The  wick  grew  terribly  as  the  quarter 
slipped  away,  and  the  charred  top  of  it  began  to  thicken  and  spread 
out  mushroom  -  shape.  It  would  fall  off  soon.  Would  it  fall  off 
red-hot,  and  would  the  swing  of  the  brig  cant  it  over  the  side  of 
the  candle  and  let  it  down  on  the  slow-match  ?  If  it  would,  I  had 
about  ten  minutes  to  live  instead  of  an  hour. 

This  discovery  set  my  mind  for  a  minute  on  a  new  tack  altogeth- 
er. I  began  to  ponder  with  myself  what  sort  of  a  death  blowing  up 
might  be.  Painful !  Well,  it  would  be,  surely,  too  sudden  for  that. 
Perhaps  just  one  crash  inside  me,  or  outside  me,  or  both  ;  and  noth- 
ing more  !  Perhaps  not  even  a  crash ;  that  and  death  and  the  scat- 
tering of  this  living  body  of  mine  into  millions  of  fiery  sparks,  might 
all  happen  in  the  same  instant !  I  couldn't  make  it  out ;  I  couldn't 
settle  how  it  would  be.  The  minute  of  calmness  in  my  mind  left  it 
before  I  had  half  done  thinking ;  and  I  got  all  abroad  again. 

When  I  came  back  to  my  thoughts,  or  when  they  came  back  to  me 
(I  can't  say  which),  the  wick  was  awfully  tall,  the  flame  was  burn- 
ing with  a  smoke  above  it,  the  charred  top  was  broad  and  red,  and 
heavily  spreading  out  to  its  fall. 


"BLOW  UP  WITH  THB  BBIO!**  445 

My  despair  and  horror  at  seeing  it  took  me  in  a  new  way,  which 
was  good  and  right,  at  any  rate,  for  my  poor  soul  I  tried  to  pray 
— in  my  own  heart,  you  will  understand,  for  the  gag  put  all  lip- 
praying  out  of  uiy  power.  I  tried,  but  the  candle  seemed  to  bum 
it  up  in  me.  I  struggled  hard  to  force  my  eyes  from  the  slow,  mur- 
dering flame,  and  to  look  up  through  the  chink  in  the  hatch  at  the 
blessed  daylight.  I  tried  once,  tried  twice ;  and  gave  it  up.  I  next 
tried  only  to  shut  my  eyes,  and  keep  them  shut — once — twice — and 
the  second  time  I  did  it.  "  God  bless  old  mother,  and  sister  Lizzie ; 
God  keep  them  both,  and  forgive  me."  That  was  all  I  had  time  to 
say,  in  my  own  heart,  before  my  eyes  opened  again,  in  spite  of  me, 
and  the  flame  of  the  candle  flew  into  them,  flew  all  over  me,  and 
burned  up  the  rest  of  my  thoughts  in  an  instant. 

I  couldn't  hear  the  fish  blowing  now ;  I  couldn't  hear  the  creak 
of  the  spars ;  I  couldn't  think ;  I  couldn't  feel  the  sweat  of  my  own 
death  agony  on  my  face — I  could  only  look  at  the  heavy,  charred 
top  of  the  wick.  It  swelled,  tottered,  bent  over  to  one  side,  drop- 
ped— red-hot  at  the  moment  of  its  fall — black  and  harmless,  even 
before  the  swing  of  the  brig  had  canted  it  over  into  the  bottom  of 
the  candlestick. 

I  caught  myself  laughing. 

Yes!  laughing  at  the  safe  fall  of  the  bit  of  wick.  But  for  the 
gag,  I  should  have  screamed  with  laughing.  As  it  was,  I  shook 
with  it  inside  me — shook  till  the  blood  was  in  my  head,  and  I  was 
all  but  suffocated  for  want  of  breath.  I  had  just  sense  enough  left 
to  feel  that  my  own  horrid  laughter  at  that  awful  moment  was  a 
sign  of  my  brain  going  at  last.  I  had  just  sense  enough  left  to 
make  another  struggle  before  my  mind  broke  loose  like  a  frighten- 
ed horse,  and  ran  away  with  me. 

One  comforting  look  at  the  blink  of  daylight  through  the  hatch 
was  what  I  tried  for  once  more.  The  fight  to  force  my  eyes  from 
the  candle  and  to  get  that  one  look  at  the  daylight  was  the  hardest 
I  had  had  yet ;  and  I  lost  the  fight.  The  flame  had  hold  of  my  eyes 
ns  fast  as  the  lashings  had  hold  of  my  hands.  I  couldn't  look  away 
from  it.  I  couldn't  even  shut  my  eyes,  when  I  tried  that  nexfcffor 
the  second  time.  There  was  the  wick  growing  tall  once  more. 
There  was  the  space  of  unburned  candle  between  the  light  and  the 
slow-match  shortened  to  an  inch  or  less. 

How  much  life  did  that  inch  leave  me  ?  Three-quarters  of  an  hour  ? 
Half  an  hour?  Fifty  minutes  ?  Twenty  minutes  ?  Steady !  an  inch 
of  tallow-candle  would  burn  longer  than  twenty  minutes.  An  inch 
of  tallow  !  the  notion  of  a  man's  body  and  soul  being  kept  together 
by  an  inch  of  tallow  !  Wonderful !  Why,  the  greatest  king  that  sits 
on  a  throne  can't  keep  a  man's  body  and  soul  together;  and  here's  an 
inch  of  tallow  that  can  do  what  the  king  can't !  There's  something 


446  "BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIG!" 

to  tell  mother  when  I  get  home  which  will  surprise  her  more  than 
all  the  rest  of  my  voyages  put  together.  I  laughed  inwardly  again 
at  the  thought  of  that,  and  shook  and  swelled  and  suffocated  my- 
self, till  the  light  of  the  candle  leaped  in  through  my  eyes,  and  lick- 
ed up  the  laughter,  and  burned  it  out  of  me,  and  made  me  all  empty 
and  cold  and  quiet  once  more. 

Mother  and  Lizzie.  I  don't  know  when  they  came  back;  but 
they  did  come  back — not,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  into  my  mind  this 
time,  but  right  down  bodily  before  me,  in  the  hold  of  the  brig. 

Yes:  sure  enough,  there  was  Lizzie,  just  as  light-hearted  as 
usual,  laughing  at  me.  Laughing?  Well,  why  not?  Who  is  to 
blame  Lizzie  for  thinking  I'm  lying  on  my  back,  drunk  in  the  cel- 
lar, with  the  beer-barrels  all  round  me  ?  Steady !  she's  crying  now 
— spinning  round  and  round  in  a  fiery  mist,  wringing  her  hands, 
screeching  out  for  help — fainter  and  fainter,  like  the  splash  of  the 
schooner's  sweeps.  Gone  —  burned  up  in  the  fiery  mist !  Mist  ? 
fire ?  no;  neither  one  nor  the  other.  It's  mother  makes  the  light — 
mother  knitting,  with  ten  flaming  points  at  the  ends  of  her  fingers 
and  thumbs,  and  slow-matches  hanging  in  bunches  all  round  her 
face  instead  of  her  own  gray  hair.  Mother  in  her  old  arm-chair, 
and  the  pilot's  long  skinny  hands  hanging  over  the  back  of  the 
chair,  dripping  with  gunpowder".  No !  no  gunpowder,  no  chair,  no 
mother — nothing  but  the  pilot's  face,  shining  red-hot,  like  a  sun,  in 
the  fiery  mist ;  turning  upside  down  in  the  fiery  mist ;  running  back- 
ward and  forward  along  the  slow-match,  in  the  fiery  mist ;  spinning 
millions  of  miles  in  a  minute,  in  the  fiery  mist  —  spinning  itself 
smaller  and  smaller  into  one  tiny  point,  and  that  point  darting  on 
a  sudden  straight  into  my  head — and  then,  all  fire  and  all  mist — no 
hearing,  no  seeing,  no  thinking,  no  feeling — the  brig,  the  sea,  my 
own  self,  the  whole  world,  all  gone  together ! 

After  what  I've  just  told  you,  I  know  nothing  and  remember  noth- 
ing, till  I  woke  up  (as  it  seemed  to  me)  in  a  comfortable  bed,  with 
two  rough-and-ready  men  like  myself  sitting  on  each  side  of  my  pil- 
lojiv,  and  a  gentleman  standing  watching  me  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
It  was  about  seven  in  the  morning.  My  sleep  (or  what  seemed  like 
my  sleep  to  me)  had  lasted  better  than  eight  months — I  was  among 
my  own  countrymen  in  the  island  of  Trinidad  —  the  men  at  each 
side  of  my  pillow  were  my  keepers,  turn  and  turn  about — and  the 
gentleman  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  the  doctor.  What  I 
said  and  did  in  those  eight  months,  I  never  have  known,  and  never 
shall.  I  woke  out  of  it  as  if  it  had  been  one  long  sleep — that's  all 
I  know. 

It  was  another  two  months  or  more  before  the  doctor  thought  it 
safe  to  answer  the  questions  I  asked  him. 


"BLOW  UP  WITH  THE  BRIO!**  447 

The  brig  had  been  anchored,  just  as  I  had  supposed,  off  a  part 
of  the  coast  which  was  lonely  enough  to  make  the  Spaniards  pretty 
sure  of  no  interruption,  so  long  as  they  managed  their  murderous 
work  quietly  under  cover  of  night. 

My  life  had  not  been  saved  from  the  shore,  but  from  the  sea.  An 
American  vessel,  becalmed  in  the  offing,  had  made  out  the  brig  as 
the  sun  rose ;  and  the  captain  having  his  time  on  his  hands  in  con- 
sequence of  the  calm,  and  seeing  a  vessel  anchored  where  no  vessel 
lia*i  any  reason  to  be,  had  manned  one  of  his  boats  and  sent  his  mate 
with  it.  to  look  a  little  closer  into  the  matter,  and  bring  back  a  re- 
port of  what  he  saw. 

What  he  saw,  when  he  and  his  men  found  the  brig  deserted  and 
boarded  her,  was  a  gleam  of  candle-light  through  the  chink  in  the 
hatchway.  The  flame  was  within  about  a  thread's  breadth  of  the 
slow-match  when  he  lowered  himself  into  the  hold;  and  if  he  had 
not  had  the  sense  and  coolness  to  cut  the  match  in  two  with  his 
knife  before  he  touched  the  candle,  he  and  his  men  might  have 
been  blown  up  along  with  the  brig  as  well  as  me.  The  match 
caught,  and  turned  into  sputtering  red  fire,  in  the  very  act  of  put- 
ting the  candle  out ;  and  if  the  communication  with  the  powder- 
barrel  had  not  been  cut  off,  the  Lord  only  knows  what  might  have 
happened. 

What  became  of  the  Spanish  schooner  and  the  pilot,  I  have  never 
heard  from  that  day  to  this. 

As  for  the  brig,  the  Yankees  took  her,  as  they  took  me,  to  Trini- 
dad, and  claimed  their  salvage,  and  got  it,  I  hope,  for  their  own 
sakcs.  I  was  landed  just  in  the  same  state  as  when  they  rescued 
me  from  the  brig  —  that  is  to  say,  clean  out  of  my  senses.  But 
please  to  remember,  it  was  a  long  time  ago ;  and,  take  my  word  for 
it,  I  was  discharged  cured,  as  I  have  told  you.  Bless  your  hearts, 
I'm  all  right  now,  as  you  may  see.  I'm  a  little  shaken  by  telling  the 
story,  as  is  only  natural — a  little  shaken,  my  good  friends,  that's  all 


OF  "BLOW  rp  WITH  THE  BRIO." 


THE  FROZEN  DEEP. 


FIRST  SCENE.-THE  BALL-ROOM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  date  is  between  twenty  and  thirty  years  ago.  The  place  is 
an  English  sea-port.  The  time  is  night.  And  the  business  of  the 
moment  is — dancing. 

The  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  the  town  are  giving  a  grand  ball, 
in  eelebration  of  the  departure  of  an  Arctic  expedition  from  their 
port.  The  ships  of  the  expedition  are  two  in  number — the  Wander- 
er and  the  Sea-mete.  They  are  to  sail  (in  search  of  the  North-west 
Passage)  on  the  next  day,  with  the  morning  tide. 

Honor  to  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  !  It  is  a  brilliant  ball.  The 
band  is  complete.  The  room  is  spacious.  The  large  conservatory 
opening  out  of  it  is  pleasantly  lighted  with  Chinese  lanterns,  and 
beautifully  decorated  with  shrubs  and  flowers.  All  officers  of  the 
army  and  navy  who  are  present  wear  their  uniforms  in  honor  of  the 
occasion.  Among  the  ladies,  the  display  of  dresses  (a  subject  which 
tlu-  men  don't  understand)  is  bewildering — and  the  average  of  beauty 
(a  subject  which  the  men  do  understand)  is  the  highest  average  at- 
tainable, in  all  parts  of  the  room. 

For  the  moment,  the  dance  which  is  in  progress  is  a  quadrille. 
General  admiration  selects  two  of  the  ladies  who  are  dancing  as  its 
favorite  objects.  One  is  a  dark  beauty  in  the  prime  of  womanhood 

the  wife  of  First  Lieutenant  Crayford,  of  the  Wanderer.  The 
other  is  a  young  girl,  pale  and  delicate;  dressed  simply  in  white; 
with  no  ornament  on  her  head  but  her  own  lovely  brown  hair.  This 
i-  Miss  Clara  Burnham — an  orphan.  She  is  Mrs.  Crayford's  dearest 
frieml,  and  she  is  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Crayford  during  the  lieutenant's 
absence  in  the  Arctic  regions.  She  is  now  dancing,  with  the  lieu- 
tenant himself  for  partner,  and  with  Mrs.  Crayford  and  Captain 
Helding  (Vommanding  officer  of  the  Wanderer)  for  rw-^-tw — in  plain 
English,  for  opposite  couple. 

19* 


450  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

The  conversation  between  Captain  Helding  and  Mrs.  Crayford,  in 
one  of  the  intervals  of  the  dance,  turns  on  Miss  Burnham.  The 
captain  is  greatly  interested  in  Clara.  He  admires  her  beauty ;  but 
he  thinks  her  manner — for  a  young  girl — strangely  serious  and  sub- 
dued. Is  she  in  delicate  health  ? 

Mrs.  Crayford  shakes  her  head ;  sighs  mysteriously ;  and  answers, 

"  In  very  delicate  health,  Captain  Helding." 

"  Consumptive  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  She  is  a  charming  creature,  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford.  She  interests  me  indescribably.  If  I  was  only  twenty  years 
younger — perhaps  (as  I  am  not  twenty  years  younger)  I  had  better 
not  finish  the  sentence  ?  Is  it  indiscreet,  my  dear  lady,  to  inquire 
what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?" 

"  It  might  be  indiscreet,  on  the  part  of  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs. 
Crayford.  "An  old  friend  like  you  may  make  any  inquiries.  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you  what  is  the  matter  with  Clara.  It  is  a  mystery 
to  the  doctors  themselves.  Some  of  the  mischief  is  due,  in  my  hum- 
ble opinion,  to  the  manner  in  which  she  has  been  brought  up." 

"Ay  !  ay  !    A  bad  school,  I  suppose." 

"  Very  bad,  Captain  Helding.  But  not  the  sort  of  school  which 
you  have  in  your  mind  at  this  moment.  Clara's  early  years  were 
spent  in  a  lonely  old  house  in  the  highlands  of  Scotland.  The  igno- 
rant people  about  her  were  the  people  who  did  the  mischief  which 
I  have  just  been  speaking  of.  They  filled  her  mind  with  the  su- 
perstitions which  are  still  respected  as  truths  in  the  wild  North — 
especially  the  superstition  called  the  Second  Sight." 

"  God  bless  me !"  cried  the  captain,  "  you  don't  mean  to  say  she 
believes  in  such  stuff  as  that  ?  In  these  enlightened  times  too  1" 

Mrs.  Crayford  looked  at  her  partner  with  a  satirical  smile. 

"  In  these  enlightened  times,  Captain  Helding,  we  only  believe  in 
dancing  tables,  and  in  messages  sent  from  the  other  world  by  spirits 
who  can't  spell !  By  comparison  with  such  superstitions  as  these, 
even  the  Second  Sight  has  something — in  the  shape  of  poetry — to 
recommend  it,  surely  ?  Estimate  for  yourself,"  she  continued  seri- 
ously, "  the  effect  of  such  surroundings  as  I  have  described  on  a 
delicate,  sensitive  young  creature — a  girl  with  a  naturally  imagina- 
tive temperament,  leading  a  lonely,  neglected  life.  Is  it  so  very  sur- 
prising that  she  should  catch  the  infection  of  the  superstition  about 
her?  And  is  it  quite  incomprehensible  that  her  nervous  system 
should  suffer  accordingly,  at  a  very  critical  period  of  her  life  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,  Mrs.  Crayford — not  at  all,  ma'am,  as  you  put  it.  Still 
it  is  a  little  startling,  to  a  commonplace  man  like  me,  to  meet  a 
young  lady  at  a  ball  who  believes  in  the  Second  Sight.  Does  she 
really  profess  to  see  into  the  future  ?  Am  I  to  understand  that  she 


HIE   FROZEN   DEEP.  451 

positively  falls  into  a  trance,  and  sees  people  in  distant  countries, 
and  foretells  events  to  come  ?    That  is  the  Second  Sight,  is  it  not  ?" 
That  is  the  Second  Sight,  captain.    And  that  is,  really  and  posi- 
tively, what  she  does." 

"  The  young  lady  who  is  dancing  opposite  to  us  ?" 

u  The  young  lady  who  is  dancing  opposite  to  us." 

The  captain  waited  a  little — letting  the  new  flood  of  information 
which  had  poured  in  on  him  settle  itself  steadily  in  his  mind.  This 
process  accomplished,  the  Arctic  explorer  proceeded  resolutely  on 
his  way  to  further  discoveries. 

"  May  I  ask,  ma'am,  if  you  have  ever  seen  her  in  a  state  of  trance 
with  your  own  eyes?"  he  inquired. 

"  My  sister  and  I  both  saw  her  in  the  trance,  little  more  than  a 
month  since,"  Mrs.  Crayford  replied.  "  She  had  been  nervous  and 
irritable  all  the  morning;  and  we  took  her  out  into  the  garden  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air.  Suddenly,  without  any  reason  for  it,  tl»e  color 
left  her  face.  She  stood  between  us,  insensible  to  touch,  insensible 
to  sound ;  motionless  as  stone,  and  cold  as  death  in  a  moment.  The 
first  change  we  noticed  came  after  a  lapse  of  some  minutes.  Her 
hands  began  to  move  slowly,  as  if  she  was  groping  in  the  dark. 
Words  dropped  one  by  one  from  her  lips,  in  a  lost,  vacant  tone,  as 
if  she  was  talking  in  her  sleep.  Whether  what  she  said  referred  to 
past  or  future  I  can  not  tell  you.  She  spoke  of  persons  in  a  for- 
eign country — perfect  strangers  to  my  sister  and  to  me.  After  a 
little  interval,  she  suddenly  became  silent.  A  momentary  color  ap- 
peared in  her  face,  and  left  it  again.  Her  eyes  closed  —  her  feet 
failed  her — and  she  sank  insensible  into  our  arms." 

"  Sank  insensible  into  your  arms,"  repeated  the  captain,  absorb- 
ing his  new  information.  "  Most  extraordinary  !  And  —  in  this 
state  of  health — she  goes  out  to  parties,  and  dances.  More  extraor- 
dinary still!" 

'•  You  are  entirely  mistaken,"  said  Mrs.  Crayford.  "  She  is  only 
here  to-night  to  please  me;  and  she  is  only  dancing  to  please  my. 
husband.  As  a  rule,  she  shuns  all  society.  The  doctor  recommend  > 
change  and  amusement  for  her.  She  won't  listen  to  him.  Except 
on  rare  occasions  like  this,  she  persists  in  remaining  at  home." 

Captain  Helding  brightened  at  the  allusion  to  the  doctor.  Some- 
thing practical  might  be  got  out  of  the  doctor.  Scientific  man. 
Sure  to  see  this  very  obscure  subject  under  a  new  light.  "How 
does  it  strike  the  doctor  now  ?"  said  the  captain.  "  Viewed  simply 
as  a  Case,  ma'am,  how  does  it  strike  the  doctor?" 

••  lie  will  give  no  positive  opinion,"  Mrs.  Crayford  answered. 
"  He  told  me  that  such  cases  as  Clam's  were  by  no  means  unfamiliar 
to  medical  practice.  '  We  know,'  he  told  me, '  that  certain  disorder- 
ed conditions  of  the  brain  and  the  nervous  system  produce  results 


452  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

quite  as  extraordinary  as  any  that  you  have  described — and  there 
our  knowledge  ends.  Neither  my  science  nor  any  man's  science  can 
clear  up  the  mystery  in  this  case.  It  is  an  especially  difficult  case 
to  deal  with,  because  Miss  Burnham's  early  associations  dispose  her 
to  attach  a  superstitious  importance  to  the  malady — the  hysterical 
malady  as  some  doctors  would  call  it — from  which  she  suffers.  I 
can  give  you  instructions  for  preserving  her  general  health ;  and  I 
can  recommend  you  to  try  some  change  in  her  life  —  provided  you 
first  relieve  her  mind  of  any  secret  anxieties  that  may  possibly  be 
preying  on  it.'" 

The  captain  smiled  self-approvingly.  The  doctor  had  justified 
his  anticipations.  The  doctor  had  suggested  a  practical  solution  of 
the  difficulty. 

"Ay!  ay!  At  last  we  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head!  Secret 
anxieties.  Yes!  yes!  Plain  enough  now.  A  disappointment  in 
love — eh,  Mrs.  Crayford  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Captain  Helding;  I  am  quite  in  the  dark.  Clara's 
confidence  in  me — in  other  matters  unbounded — is,  in  this  matter 
of  her  (supposed)  anxieties,  a  confidence  still  withheld.  In  all  else 
we  are  like  sisters.  I  sometimes  fear  there  may  indeed  be  some 
trouble  preying  secretly  on  her  mind.  I  sometimes  feel  a  little  hurt 
at  her  incomprehensible  silence." 

Captain  Helding  was  ready  with  his  own  practical  remedy  for 
this  difficulty. 

"  Encouragement  is  all  she  wants,  ma'am.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
this  matter  rests  entirely  with  you.  It's  all  in  a  nutshell.  Encour- 
age her  to  confide  in  you—  and  she  will  confide." 

"I  am  waiting  to  encourage  her,  captain,  until  she  is  left  alone 
with  me  —  after  you  have  all  sailed  for  the  Arctic  seas.  In  the 
mean  time,  will  you  consider  what  I  have  said  to  you  as  intended 
for  your  ear  only  ?  And  will  you  forgive  me,  if  I  own  that  the  turn 
the  subject  has  taken  does  not  tempt  me  to  pursue  it  any  farther  ?" 

The  captain  took  the  hint.  He  instantly  changed  the  subject; 
choosing,  on  this  occasion,  safe  professional  topics.  He  spoke  of 
ships  that  were  ordered  on  foreign  service ;  and,  finding  that  these 
as  subjects  failed  to  interest  Mrs.  Crayford,  he  spoke  next  of  ships 
that  were  ordered  home  again.  This  last  experiment  produced  its 
effect — an  effect  which  the  captain  had  not  bargained  for. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  began, "  that  the  Atalanta  is  expected  back 
from  the  "West  Coast  of  Africa,  every  day  ?  Have  you  any  acquaint- 
ances among  the  officers  of  that  ship  ?" 

As  it  so  happened,  he  put  those  questions  to  Mrs.  Crayford  while 
they  were  engaged  in  one  of  the  figures  of  the  dance  which  brought 
them  within  hearing  of  the  opposite  couple.  At  the  same  moment 
— to  the  astonishment  of  her  friends  and  admirers  —  Miss  Clara 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  453 

Burnham  threw  the  quadrille  into  confusion  by  making  a  mistake! 
Every  body  waited  to  see  her  set  the  mistake  right.  She  made  no 
attempt  t<>  set  it  right  —  she  turned  deadly  pale,  and  caught  her 
partner  by  the  arm. 

"  The  heat !"  she  said,  faintly.  "  Take  me  away — take  me  into 
the  air  I1' 

Lieutenant  Crayford  instantly  led  her  out  of  the  dance,  and  took 
her  into  the  cool  and  empty  conservatory,  at  the  end  of  the  room. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  Captain  Helding  and  Mrs.  Crayford  left  the 
quadrille  at  the  same  time.  The  captain  saw  his  way  to  a  joke. 

"Is  this  the  trance  coming  on?"  he  whispered.  "If  it  is,  as 
commander  of  the  Arctic  expedition,  I  have  a  particular  request  to 
make.  Will  the  Second  Sight  oblige  me  by  seeing  the  shortest  way 
to  the  North-west  Passage,  before  we  leave  England  ?" 

Mrs.  Crayford  declined  to  humor  the  joke.  "  If  you  will  excuse 
my  leaving  you,"  she  said  quietly, "  I  will  try  and  find  out  what  is 
the  matter  with  Miss  Burnham." 

At  the  entrance  to  the  conservatory,  Mrs.  Crayford  encountered 
her  husband.  The  lieutenant  was  of  middle  age,  tall  and  comely. 
A  man  with  a  winning  simplicity  and  gentleness  in  his  manner,  and 
an  irresistible  kindness  in  his  brave  blue  eyes.  In  one  word,  a  man 
whom  every  body  loved — including  his  wife. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "  The  heat  has  over- 
come her — that's  all." 

Mrs.  Crayford  shook  her  head,  and  looked  at  her  husband,  half 
satirically,  half  fondly. 

"  You  dear  old  innocent !"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  excuse  may  do 
for  you.  For  my  part,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Go  and  get  an- 
other partner,  and  leave  Clara  to  me." 

She  entered  the  conservatory  and  seated  herself  by  Clara's  side. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Now,  my  dear!"  Mrs.  Crayford  began,  "what  does  this  mean?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  That  won't  do,  Clara.     Try  again." 

"  The  heat  of  the  room — " 

"  That  won't  do,  either.  Say  that  you  choose  to  keep  your  own 
secrets,  and  I  shall  understand  what  you  mean." 

Clara's  sad,  clear  gray  eyes  looked  up  for  the  first  time  in  Mrs. 
Crayford's  face,  and  suddenly  became  dimmed  with  tears. 

"If  I  only  daml  tell  you  !"  she  murmured.  "I  hold  so  to  your 
good  opinion  of  me,  Lucy— and  I  am  so  afraid  of  losing  it." 


454  THE  FROZEN  DEEP. 

Mrs.  Crayford's  manner  changed.  Her  eyes  rested  gravely  and 
anxiously  on  Clara's  face. 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  nothing  can  shake  my  affection 
for  you,"  she  said.  "Do  justice,  my  child,  to  your  old  friend. 
There  is  nobody  here  to  listen  to  what  we  say.  Open  your  heart, 
Clara.  I  see  you  are  in  trouble,  and  I  want  to  comfort  you." 

Clara  began  to  yield.  In  other  words,  she  began  to  make  con- 
ditions. 

"Will  you  promise  to  keep  what  I  tell  you  a  secret  from  every 
living  creature  ?"  she  began. 

Mrs.  Crayford  met  that  question,  by  putting  a  question  on  her 
side. 

"  Does  '  every  living  creature '  include  my  husband  ?" 

"Your  husband  more  than  any  body !  I  love  him,  I  revere  him. 
He  is  so  noble ;  he  is  so  good !  If  I  told  him  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you,  he  would  despise  me.  Own  it  plainly,  Lucy,  if  I  am  asking 
too  much  in  asking  you  to  keep  a  secret  from  your  husband." 

"  Nonsense,  child !  When  you  are  married,  you  will  know  that  the 
easiest  of  all  secrets  to  keep  is  a  secret  from  your  husband.  I  give 
you  my  promise.  Now  begin !" 

Clara  hesitated  painfully. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  begin !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of  de- 
spair. "  The  words  won't  come  to  me." 

"  Then  I  must  help  you.  Do  you  feel  ill  to-night  ?  Do  you  feel 
as  you  felt  that  day  when  you  were  with  my  sister  and  me  in  the 
garden?" 

"  Oh  no." 

•  "  You  are  not  ill,  you  are  not  really  affected  by  the  heat — and  yet 
you  turn  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  you  are  obliged  to  leave  the  qua- 
drille !  There  must  be  some  reason  for  this." 

"  There  is  a  reason.     Captain  Helding — " 

"Captain  Helding!  .  What  in  the  name  of  wonder  has  the  cap- 
tain to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  He  told  you  something  about  the  Atalanta.  He  said  the  Atalan- 
ta  was  expected  back  from  Africa  immediately." 

"  Well,  and  what  of  that  ?  Is  there  any  body  in  whom  you  are 
interested  coming  home  in  the  ship  ?" 

"  Somebody  whom  I  am  afraid  of  is  coming  home  in  the  ship." 

Mrs.  Crayford's  magnificent  black  eyes  opened  wide  in  amazement. 

"  My  dear  Clara  !  do  you  really  mean  what  you  say  ?" 

"  Wait  a  little,  Lucy,  and  you  shall  judge  for  yourself.  We  must 
go  back — if  I  am  to  make  you  understand  me — to  the  year  before 
we  knew  each  other — to  the  last  year  of  my  father's  life.  Did  T 
ever  tell  you  that  my  father  moved  southward,  for  the  sake  of  his 
health,  to  a  house  in  Kent  that  was  lent  to  him  by  a  friend  ?" 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  455 

"  No,  my  dear ;  I  don't  remember  ever  hearing  of  the  house  in 
Kent.  Tell  me  about  it." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,  except  this :  the  new  house  was  near 
a  fine  country-seat  standing  in  its  own  park.  The  owner  of  the 
place  was  a  gentleman  named  Wardour.  He,  too,  was  one  of  my 
father's  Kentish  friends.  He  had  an  only  son." 

She  paused,  and  played  nervously  with  her  fan.  Mrs.  Crayford 
looked  at  her  attentively.  Clara's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  her  fan — 
Clara  said  no  more. 

"  What  was  the  son's  name  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Crayford,  quietly. 

"  Richard." 

"  Am  I  right,  Clara,  in  suspecting  that  Mr.  Richard  Wardour  ad- 
mired you  ?" 

The  question  produced  its  intended  effect.  The  question  helped 
Clara  to  go  on. 

"  I  hardly  knew  at  first,"  she  said,  "  whether  he  admired  me  or 
not.  He  was  very  strange  in  his  ways — headstrong,  terribly  head- 
strong and  passionate ;  but  generous  and  affectionate  in  spite  of  his 
faults  of  temper.  Can  you  understand  such  a  character  ?" 

"  Such  characters  exist  by  thousands.  I  have  my  faults  of  tem- 
per. I  begin  to  like  Richard  already.  Go  on." 

"  The  days  went  by,  Lucy,  and  the  weeks  went  by.  We  were 
thrown  very  much  together.  I  began,  little  by  little,  to  have  some 
suspicion  of  the  truth." 

"  And  Richard  helped  to  confirm  your  suspicions,  of  course  ?" 

"No.  He  was  not — unhappily  for  me — he  was  not  that  sort  of 
man.  He  never  spoke  of  the  feeling  with  which  he  regarded  me. 
It  was  I  who  saw  it.  I  couldn't  help  seeing  it.  I  did  all  I  could 
to  show  that  I  was  willing  to  be  a  sister  to  him,  and  that  I  could 
never  be  any  thing  else.  He  did  not  understand  me,  or  he  would 
not,  I  can't  say  which." 

" '  Would  not,'  is  the  most  likely,  my  dear.    Go  on." 

"  It  might  have  been  as  you  say.  There  was  a  strange,  rough 
bashfulness  about  him.  He  confused  and  puzzled  me.  He  never 
spoke  out.  He  seemed  to  treat  me  as  if  our  future  lives  had 
Inrn  provided  for  while  we  were  children.  What  could  I  do, 
Lucy  ?" 

"  Do  ?  You  could  have  asked  your  father  to  end  the  difficulty 
for  you." 

"  Impossible  !  You  forget  what  I  have  just  told  you.  My  father 
was  suffering  at  that  time  under  the  illness  whiu'.<  afterward  caused 
his  death.  He  was  quite  unfit  to  interfere." 

"  Was  there  no  one  else  who  could  help  you  ?" 

"No  one." 

"  No  lady  in  whom  you  could  confide  1" 


456  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

"  I  Lad  acquaintances  among  the  ladies  in  the  neighborhood.  I 
had  no  friends." 

"  What  did  you  do,  then  ?" 

"  Nothing.  I  hesitated ;  I  put  off  coming  to  an  explanation  with 
him,  unfortunately,  until  it  was  too  late." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  too  late  ?" 

"  You  shall  hear.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  that  Richard  War- 
dour  is  in  the  navy — " 

"  Indeed  !     I  am  more  interested  in  him  than  ever.     Well  ?" 

"  One  spring  day  Richard  came  to  our  house  to  take  leave  of  us 
before  he  joined  his  ship.  I  thought  he  was  gone,  and  I  went  into 
the  next  room.  It  was  my  own  sitting-room,  and  it  opened  on  to 
the  garden." 

"  Yes  ?" 

"  Richard  must  have  been  watching  me.  He  suddenly  appeared 
in  the  garden.  Without  waiting  for  me  .to  invite  him,  he  walked 
into  the  room.  I  was  a  little  startled  as  well  as  surprised,  but  I 
managed  to  hide  it.  I  said, '  What  is  it,  Mr.  Wardour  ?'  He  stepped 
close  up  to  me ;  he  said,  in  his  quick,  rough  way :  '  Clara  !  I  am  go- 
ing to  the  African  coast.  If  I  live,  I  shall  come  back  promoted; 
and  we  both  know  what  will  happen  then.'  He  kissed  me.  I  was 
half  frightened,  half  angry.  Before  I  could  compose  myself  to  say  a 
word,  he  was  out  in  the  garden  again — he  was  gone !  I  ought  to 
have  spoken,  I  know.  It  was  not  honorable,  not  kind  toward  him. 
You  can't  reproach  me  for  my  want  of  courage  and  frankness  more 
bitterly  than  I  reproach  myself!" 

"  My  dear  child,  I  don't  reproach  you.  I  only  think  you  might 
have  written  to  him." 

"  I  did  write." 

"  Plainly  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  told  him  in  so  many  words  that  he  was  deceiving  him- 
self, and  that  I  could  never  marry  him." 

"  Plain  enough,  in  all  conscience !  Having  said  that,  surely  you 
are  not  to  blame.  What  are  you  fretting  about  now  ?" 

"  Suppose  my  letter  has  never  reached  him  ?" 

"  Why  should  you  suppose  any  thing  of  the  sort  ?" 

"  What  I  wrote  required  an  answer,  Lucy — asked  for  an  answer. 
The  answer  has  never  come.  What  is  the  plain  conclusion?  My 
letter  has  never  reached  him.  And  the  Atalanta  is  expected  back  ! 
Richard  Wardour  is  returning  to  England — Richard  Wardour  will 
claim  me  as  his  wife !  You  wondered  just  now  if  I  really  meant 
what  I  said.  Do  you  doubt  it  still  ?" 

Mrs.  Crayford  leaned  back  absently  in  her  chair.  For  the  first 
time  since  the  conversation  had  begun,  she  let  a  question  pass  with- 
out making  a  reply.  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Crayford  was  thinking. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  457 

She  saw  Clara's  position  plainly ;  she  understood  the  disturbing 
effect  of  it  on  the  mind  of  a  young  girl.  Still,  making  all  allow- 
ances, she  felt  quite  at  a  loss,  so  far,  to  account  for  Clara's  excess- 
ive agitation.  Her  quick  observing  faculty  had  just  detected  that 
Clara's  face  showed  no  signs  of  relief,  now  that  she  had  unburdened 
herself  of  her  secret.  There  was  something  clearly  under  the  sur- 
face here — something  of  importance  that  still  remained  to  be  dis- 
covered. A  shrewd  doubt  crossed  Mrs.  Crayford's  mind,  and  in- 
spired the  next  words  which  she  addressed  to  her  young  friend. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  have  you  told  me  all  ?" 

Clara  started  as  if  the  question  terrified  her.  Feeling  sure  that 
she  now  had  the  clue  in  her  hand,  Mrs.  Crayford  deliberately  re- 
peated her  question,  in  another  form  of  words.  Instead  of  answer- 
ing, Clara  suddenly  looked  up.  At  the  same  moment  a  faint  flush 
of  color  appeared  in  her  face  for  the  first  time. 

Looking  up  instinctively  on  her  side,  Mrs.  Crayford  became  aware 
of  the  presence,  in  the  conservatory,  of  a  young  gentleman  who  was 
claiming  Clara  as  his  partner  in  the  coming  waltz.  Mrs.  Crayford 
fell  into  thinking  once  more.  Had  this  young  gentleman  (she  ask- 
ed herself)  any  thing  to  do  with  the  untold  end  of  the  story?  Was 
this  the  true  secret  of  Clara  Burnham's  terror  at  the  impending 
return  of  Richard  Wardour?  Mrs.  Crayford  decided  on  putting  her 
doubts  to  the  test. 

"A  friend  of  yours,  my  dear  ?"  she  asked,  innocently.  "  Suppose 
you  introduce  us  to  each  other." 

Clara  confusedly  introduced  the  young  gentleman. 

"  Mr.  Francis  Aldersley,  Lucy.  Mr.  Aldersley  belongs  to  the  Arc- 
tic expedition." 

"Attached  to  the  expedition  ?"  Mrs.  Crayford  repeated.  "  I  am  at- 
tached to  the  expedition  too — in  my  way.  I  had  better  introduce 
myself,  Mr.  Aldersley,  as  Clara  seems  to  have  forgotten  to  do  it  for 
me.  I  am  Mrs.  Crayford.  My  husband  is  Lieutenant  Crayford,  of 
the  Wanderer.  Do  you  belong  to  that  ship  ?" 

"  I  have  not  the  honor,  Mrs.  Crayford.     I  belong  to  the  Sea-mew." 

Mrs.  Crayford's  superb  eyes  looked  shrewdly  backward  and  for- 
ward betweeen  Clara  and  Francis  Aldersley,  and  saw  the  untold 
sequel  to  Clara's  story.  The  young  officer  was  a  bright,  handsome, 
gentleman-like  lad.  Just  the  person  to  seriously  complicate  the 
difficulty  with  Richard  Wardour!  There  was  no  time  for  making 
any  further  inquiries.  The  band  had  begun  the  prelude  to  the 
wait/,,  and  r -aneis  AMersley  was  waiting  for  his  partner.  With  a 
word  of  apology  to  the  young  man,  Mrs.  Crayford  drew  Clara  aside 
for  a  moment,  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  whisper. 

"One  word,  my  dear,  before  you  return  to  the  ball-room.  It  may 
sound  conceited,  after  the  little  you  have  told  me ;  but  I  think  I 


458  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

understand  your  position  now,  better  than  you  do  yourself.  Do  you 
want  to  hear  ray  opinion  ?" 

"  I  am  longing  to  hear  it,  Lucy  !  I  want  your  opinion ;  I  want 
your  advice." 

"  You  shall  have  both  in  the  plainest  and  fewest  words.  First, 
my  opinio  i :  You  have  no  Choice  but  to  come  to  an  e:  pi  nation 
with  Mr.  Wardour  as  soon  as  he  returns.  Second,  my  advice :  If 
you  wish  to  make  the  explanation  easy  to  both  sides,  take  care  that 
you  make  it  in  the  character  of  a  free  woman." 

She  laid  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  last  three  words,  and  looked 
pointedly  at  Francis  Aldersley  as  she  pronounced  them.  "  I  won't 
keep  you  from  your  partner  any  longer,  Clara,"  she  resumed,  and 
led  the  way  back  to  the  ball-room. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  burden  on  Clara's  mind  weighs  on  it  more  heavily  than  ever, 
after  what  Mrs.  Crayford  has  said  to  her.  She  is  too  unhappy  to 
feel  the  inspiriting  influence  of  the  dance.  After  a  turn  round  the 
room,  she  complains  of  fatigue.  Mr.  Francis  Aldersley  looks  at  the 
conservatory  (still  as  invitingly  cool  and  empty  as  ever) ;  leads  her 
back  to  it ;  and  places  her  on  a  seat  among  the  shrubs.  She  tries — 
very  feebly — to  dismiss  him. 

"  Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  dancing,  Mr.  Aldersley." 

He  seats  himself  by  her  side,  and  feasts  his  eyes  on  the  lovely 
downcast  face  that  dares  not  turn  toward  him.  He  whispers  to 
her: 

"  Call  me  Frank." 

She  longs  to  call  him  Frank — she  loves  him  with  all  her  heart. 
But  Mrs.  Crayford's  warning  words  are  still  in  her  mind.  She  nev- 
er opens  her  lips.  Her  lover  moves  a  little  closer,  and  asks  another 
favor.  Men  are  all  alike  on  these  occasions.  Silence  invariably  en- 
courages them  to  try  again. 

"  Clara !  have  you  forgotten  what  I  said  at  the  concert  yesterday  ? 
May  I  say  it  again  ?" 

"  No !" 

"We  sail  to-morrow  for  the  Arctic  seas.  I  may  not  return  for 
years.  Don't  send  me  away  without  hope !  Think  of  the  long, 
lonely  time  in  the  dark  North !  Make  it  a  happy  time  for  me." 

Though  he  speaks  with  the  fervor  of  a  man,  he  is  little  more  than 
a  lad:  he  is  only  twenty  years  old,  and  he  is  going  to  risk  his 
young  life  on  the  frozen  deep !  Clara  pities  him  as  she  never  pitied 
any  human  creature  before.  He  gently  takes  her  hand.  She  tries 
to  release  it. 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  459 

"  What !  not  even  that  little  favor  on  the  last  night  ?" 

Her  faithful  heart  takes  his  part,  in  spite  of  her.  Her  hand  re- 
mains in  his,  and  feels  its  soft  persuasive  pressure.  She  is  a  lost 
woman.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time  now  ! 

"  Clara  !  do  you  love  me  ?" 

There  is  a  pause.  She  shrinks  from  looking  at  him — she  trembles 
with  strange  contradictory  sensations  of  pleasure  and  pain.  His 
arm  steals  round  her ;  he  repeats  his  question  in  a  whisper ;  his  lips 
almost  touch  her  little  rosy  ear  as  he  says  it  again : 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?" 

She  closes  her  eyes  faintly — she  hears  nothing  but  those  words — 
feels  nothing  but  his  arm  round  her — forgets  Mrs  Crayford's  warn- 
ing— forgets  Richard  Wardour  himself — turns  suddenly,  with  a  lov- 
ing woman's  desperate  disregard  of  every  thing  .but  her  love — nes- 
tles her  head  on  his  bosom,  and  answers  him  in  that  way,  at  last ! 

He  lifts  the  beautiful  drooping  head — their  lips  meet  in  their  first 
kiss — they  are  both  in  heaven :  it  is  Clara  who  brings  them  back  to 
earth  again  with  a  start — it  is  Clara  who  says,  "Oh!  what  have  I 
done  ?" — as  usual,  when  it  is  too  late. 

Frank  answers  the  question. 

"  You  have  made  me  happy,  my  angel.  Now,  when  I  come  back, 
I  come  back  to  make  you  my  wife." 

She  shudders.  She  remembers  Richard  Wardour  again  at  those 
words. 

"  Mind  !"  she  says,  "  nobody  is  to  know  we  are  engaged  till  I  per- 
mit you  to  mention  it.  Remember  that !" 

He  promises  to  remember  it.  His  arm  tries  to  wind  round  her 
once  more.  No  !  She  is  mistress  of  herself;  she  can  positively  dis- 
miss him  now — after  she  has  let  him  kiss  her ! 

"  Go  !"  she  says.  "  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Crayford.  Find  her  !  Say 
I  am  here,  waiting  to  speak  to  her.  Go  at  once,  Frank — for  my 
sake !" 

There  is  no  alternative  but  to  obey  her.  His  eyes  drink  a  last 
draught  of  her  beauty.  He  hurries  away  on  his  errand — the  hap- 
|iir>t  man  in  the  room.  Five  minutes  since  she  was  only  his  part- 
ner in  the  dance.  He  has  spoken — and  she  has  pledged  herself  to 
be  his  partner  for  life ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  not  easy  to  find  Mrs.  Crayford  in  the  crowd.  Searching 
here,  and  searching  there.  Frank  became  conscious  of  a  stranger, 
who  appeared  to  be  looking  for  somebody,  on  his  side.  He  was  a 
dark,  heavy-browed,  strongly-built  man,  dressed  in  a  shabby  old 


460  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

naval  officer's  uniform.  His  manner — strikingly  resolute  and  self- 
contained —  was  unmistakably  the  manner  of  a  gentleman.  He 
wound  his  way  slowly  through  the  crowd;  stopping  to  look  at 
every  lady  whom  he  passed,  and  then  looking  away  again  with  a 
frown.  Little  by  little  he  approached  the  conservatory — entered  it, 
after  a  moment's  reflection — detected  the  glimmer  of  a  white  dress 
in  the  distance,  through  the  shrubs  and  flowers — advanced  to  get  a 
nearer  view  of  the  lady — and  burst  into  Clara's  presence  with  a  cry 
of  delight. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  stood  before  him  speechless,  motion- 
less, struck  to  stone.  All  her  life  was  in  her  eyes — the  eyes  which 
told  her  she  was  looking  at  Richard  Wardour. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  startled  you,  my  darling.  I  forgot  every  thing  but 
the  happiness  of  seeing  you  again.  We  only  reached  our  moorings 
two  hours  since.  I  was  some  time  inquiring  after  you,  and  some 
time  getting  my  ticket  when  they  told  me  you  were  at  the  ball. 
Wish  me  joy,  Clara !  I  am  promoted.  I  have  come  back  to  make 
you  my  wife." 

A  momentary  change  passed  over  the  blank  terror  of  her  face.  Her 
color  rose  faintly,  her  lips  moved.  She  abruptly  put  a  question  to  him. 

"  Did  you  get  my  letter  ?" 

He  started.     "A  letter  from  you  ?    I  never  received  it." 

The  momentary  animation  died  out  of  her  face  again.  She  drew 
back  from  him  and  dropped  into  a  chair.  He  advanced  toward 
her,  astonished  and  alarmed.  She  shrank  in  the  chair — shrank,  as 
if  she  was  frightened  of  him. 

"  Clara,  you  have  not  even  shaken  hands  with  me  !  What  does  it 
mean  ?" 

He  paused ;  waiting  and  watching  her.  She  made  no  reply.  A 
flash  of  the  quick  temper  in  him  leaped  up  in  his  eyes.  He  repeated 
his  last  words  in  louder  and  sterner  tones : 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

She  replied  this  time.  His  tone  had  hurt  her  —  his  tone  had 
roused  her  sinking  courage. 

"  It  means,  Mr.  Wardour,  that  you  have  been  mistaken  from  the 
first." 

"  How  have  I  been  mistaken  ?" 

"  You  have  been  under  a  wrong  impression,  and  you  have  given 
me  no  opportunity  of  setting  you  right." 

"  In  what  way  have  I  been  wrong  ?" 

"  You  have  been  too  hasty  and  too  confident  about  yourself  and 
about  me.  You  have  entirely  misunderstood  me.  I  am  grieved  to 
distress  you,  but  for  your  sake  I  must  speak  plainly.  I  am  your 
friend  always,  Mr.  Wardour,  I  can  never  be  your  wife." 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  463 

He  mechanically  repeated  the  last  words.  He  seemed  to  doubt 
whether  he  had  heard  her  aright. 

••  You  can  never  be  my  wife  ?" 

-Never!" 

-  Why  ?" 

There  was  no  answer.  She  was  incapable  of  telling  him  a  false- 
hood. She  was  ashamed  to  tell  him  the  truth. 

He  stooped  over  her,  and  suddenly  possessed  himself  of  her  hand. 
Holding  her  hand  firmly,  he  stooped  a  little  lower;  searching  for  the 
signs  which  might  answer  him  in  her  face.  His  own  face  darkened 
slowly  while  he  looked.  He  was  beginning  to  suspect  her ;  and  he 
acknowledged  it  inliis  next  words. 

"  Something  has  changed  you  toward  me,  Clara.  Somebody  has 
influenced  you  against  me.  Is  it — you  force  me  to  ask  the  question 
— is  it  some  other  man  ?" 

"  You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that." 

He  went  on  without  noticing  what  she  had  said  to  him. 

"  Has  that  other  man  come  between  you  and  me  ?  I  speak  plain- 
ly on  my  side.  Speak  plainly  on  yours." 

"  I  have  spoken.     I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

There  was  a  pause.  She  saw  the  warning  light  which  told  of  the 
fire  within  him,  growing  brighter  and  brighter  in  his  eyes.  She  felt 
his  grasp  strengthening  on  her  hand.  He  appealed  to  her  for  the 
last  tiim-. 

"  Reflect,"  he  said, "  reflect  before  it  is  too  late.  Your  silence  will 
nut  serve  you.  If  you  persist  in  not  answering  me,  I  shall  take  your 
silence  as  a  confession.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

"  I  hear  you." 

"  Clara  Burnham  !  I  tun  not  to  be  trifled  with.  Clara  Burnham  ! 
I  insist  on  the  truth.  Are  you  false  to  me  ?" 

She  resented  that  searching  question  with  a  woman's  keen  sense 
of  the  insult  that  is  implied  in  doubting  her  to  her  face. 

"Mr.  Wardour!  you  forget  yourself  when  you  cull  me  to  account 
in  that  way.  I  never  encouraged  you.  I  never  gave  you  promise 
or  pledge — 

He  passionately  interrupted  her  before  she  could  say  more. 

'•  You  have  engaged  yourself  in  my  absence.  Your  words  own 
it ;  your  looks  own  it  !  You  have  engaged  yourself  to  another 
man  !" 

"  If  I  hate  engaged  myself,  what  right  have  you  to  complain  of 
it  ?"  she  answered  firmly.  "  What  right  have  you  to  control  my 
actions —  ?" 

The  next  words  died  away  on  her  lips.  He  suddenly  dropped  her 
hand.  A  marked  change  appeared  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes — a 
change  which  told  her  of  the  terrible  passions  that  she  had  let  loose 


464      .  THE  FROZEN  DEEP. 

in  him.  She  read,  dimly  read,  something  in  his  face  which  made 
her  tremble — not  for  herself,  but  for  Frank. 

Little  by  little  the  dark  color  faded  out  of  his  face.  His  deep 
voice  dropped  suddenly  to  a  low  and  quiet  tone  as  he  spoke  the 
parting  words. 

"Say  no  more,  Miss  Burnham — you  have  said  enough.  I 'am  an- 
swered; I  am  dismissed."  He  paused,  and,  stepping  close  up  to  her, 
laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"The  time  may  come,"  he  said,  "when  I  shall  forgive  you.  But 
the  man  who  has  robbed  me  of  you  shall  rue  the  day  when  you  and 
he  first  met." 

He  turned  and  left  her. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Mrs.  Crayford,  entering  the  conservatory,  was 
met  by  one  of  the  attendants  at  the  ball.  The  man  stopped  as  if  he 
wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  Do  you  happen  to  have  a  smelling- 
bottle  about  you  ?  There  is  a  young  lady  in  the  conservatory  who 
is  taken  faint." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  morning  of  the  next  day — the  morning  on  which  the  ships 
were  to  sail — came  bright  and  breezy.  Mrs.  Crayford,  having  ar- 
ranged to  follow  her  husband  to  the  water-side,  and  see  the  last  of 
him  before  he  embarked,  entered  Clara's  room  on  her  way  out  of 
the  house,  anxious  to  hear  how  her  young  friend  passed  the  night. 
To  her  astonishment  she  found  Clara  had  risen,  and  was  dressed, 
like  herself,  to  go  out. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  my  dear  ?  After  what  you  suffered  last 
night — after  the  shock  of  seeing  that  man — why  don't  you  take  my 
advice  and  rest  in  your  bed  ?" 

"I  can't  rest.  I  have  not  slept  all  night.  Have  you  been  out 
yet?" 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  seen  or  heard  any  thing  of  Richard  Wardour  ?" 

"  What  an  extraordinary  question  !" 

"Answer  my  question  !     Don't  trifle  with  me  !" 

"  Compose  yourself,  Clara.  I  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  any 
thing  of  Richard  Wardour.  Take  my  word  for  it,  he  is  far  enough 
away  by  this  time." 

"  No  !  He  is  here !  He  is  near  us !  All  night  long  the  presenti- 
ment has  pursued  me — Frank  and  Richard  Wardour  will  meet." 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  485 

"  My  dear  child !  what  are  you  thinking  of?  They  are  total 
strangers  to  ouch  other." 

"Something  will  happen  to  bring  them  together.  I  feel  itl  I 
know  it!  They  will  meet — there  will  be  a  mortal  quarrel  between 
them — and  I  shall  be  to  blame.  Oh,  Lucy!  why  didn't  I  take  your 
advice?  Why  was  I  mad  enough  to  let  Frank  know  that  I  loved 
him?  Are  you  going  to  the  landing-stage?  I  am  all  ready  —  I 
must  go  with  you." 

"  You  must  not  think  of  it,  Clara.  There  will  be  crowding  and 
confusion  at  the  water-side.  You  are  not  strong  enough  to  bear  it. 
Wait — I  won't  be  long  away — wait  till  I  come  back." 

"  I  must  and  will  go  with  you  !  Crowd  ?  He  will  be  among  the 
crowd !  Confusion  ?  In  that  confusion  he  will  find  his  way  to 
Frank !  Don't  ask  me  to  wait.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  wait.  I  shall 
not  know  a  moment's  ease  until  I  have  seen  Frank,  with  my  own 
eyes,  safe  in  the  boat  which  takes  him  to  his  ship !  You  have  got 
your  bonnet  on ;  what  are  we  stopping  here  for  ?  Come  !  or  I  shall 
go  without  you.  Look  at  the  clock ;  we  have  not  a  moment  to 
lose !" 

It  was  useless  to  contend  with  her.  Mrs.  Crayford  yielded.  The 
two  women  left  the  house  together. 

The  landing-stage,  as  Mrs.  Crayford  had  predicted,  was  thronged 
with  spectators.  Not  only  the  relatives  and  friends  of  the  Arctic 
voyagers,  but  strangers  as  well,  had  assembled  in  large  numbers  to 
see  the  ships  sail.  Clara's  eyes  wandered  affrightedly  hither  and 
thither  among  the  strange  faces  in  the  crowd  ;  searching  for  the  one 
face  that  she  dreaded  to  see,  and  not  finding  it.  So  completely 
were  her  nerves  unstrung,  that  she  started  with  a  cry  of  alarm  on 
suddenly  hearing  Frank's  voice  behind  her. 

"  The  8ea-meir\<<  boats  are  waiting,"  he  said.  "  I  must  go,  darling. 
How  pale  you  are  looking,  Clara !  Are  you  ill  ?" 

She  never  answered.  She  questioned  him  with  wild  eyes  and 
trembling  lips. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened  to  you,  Frank  ?  any  thing  out  of  the 
common  ?" 

Frank  laughed  at  the  strange  question. 

"  Any  thing  out  of  the  common  ?"  he  repeated.  "  Nothing  that 
I  know  of,  except  sailing  for  the  Arctic  seas.  That's  out  of  the 
common,  I  suppose — isn't  it  ?" 

"  I  las  any  body  spoken  to  you  since  last  night?  Has  any  stranger 
followed  you  in  the  street  ?" 

Frank  turned  in  blank  amazement  to  Mrs.  Crayford. 

"  What  on  earth  does  she  mean  ?" 

Mrs.  Crayford's  lively  invention  supplied  her  with  an  answer  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment. 

20 


466  THE  PBOZEN 

"  Do  you  believe  in  dreams,  Frank  ?  Of  course  you  don't !  Clara 
has  been  dreaming  about  you ;  and  Clara  is  foolish  enough  to  be- 
lieve in  dreams.  That's  all — it's  not  worth  talking  about.  Hark ! 
they  are  calling  you.  Say  good-bye,  or  you  will  be  too  late  for  the 
boat." 

Frank  took  Clara's  hand.  Long  afterward — in  the  dark  Arctic 
days,  in  the  dreary  Arctic  nights — he  remembered  how  coldly  and 
how  passively  that  hand  lay  in  his. 

"Courage,  Clara!"  he  said,  gayly.  "A  sailor's  sweetheart  must 
accustom  herself  to  partings.  The  time  will  soon  pass.  Good-bye, 
my  darling  !  Good-bye,  my  wife  !" 

He  kissed  the  cold  hand ;  he  looked  his  last — for  many  a  long 
year,  perhaps !  —  at  the  pale  and  beautiful  face.  "  How  she  loves 
me  !"  he  thought.  "  How  the  parting  distresses  her  !"  He  still  held 
her  hand ;  he  would  have  lingered  longer,  if  Mrs.  Crayford  had  not 
wisely  waived  all  ceremony  and  pushed  him  away. 

The  two  ladies  followed  him  at  a  safe  distance  through  the  crowd, 
and  saw  him  step  into  the  boat.  The  oars  struck  the  water ;  Frank 
waved  his  cap  to  Clara.  In  a  moment  more  a  vessel  at  anchor  hid 
the  boat  from  view.  They  had  seen  the  last  of  him  on  his  way  to 
the  Frozen  Deep ! 

"No  Richard  Wardour  in  the  boat,"  said  Mrs.  Crayford.  "No 
Richard  Wardour  on  the  shore.  Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you,  my 
dear.  Never  be  foolish  enough  to  believe  in  presentiments  again." 

Clara's  eyes  still  wandered  suspiciously  to  and  fro  among  the 
crowd. 

"  Are  you  not  satisfied  yet  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Crayford. 

"  No,"  Clara  answered,  "  I  am  not  satisfied  yet." 

"  What !  still  looking  for  him  ?  This  is  really  too  absurd.  Here 
is  my  husband  coming.  I  shall  tell  him  to  call  a  cab,  and  send  you 
home." 

Clara  drew  back  a  few  steps. 

"  I  won't  be  in  the  way,  Lucy,  while  you  are  taking  leave  of  your 
good  husband,"  she  said.  "  I  will  wait  here." 

"Wait  here!     What  for?" 

"  For  something  which  I  may  yet  see ;  or  for  something  which  I 
may  still  hear." 

"  Richard  Wardour  ?" 

"  Richard  Wardour." 

Mrs.  Crayford  turned  to  her  husband  without  another  word. 
Clara's  infatuation  was  beyond  the  reach  of  remonstrance. 

The  boats  of  the  Wanderer  took  the  place  at  the  landing  -  stage 
vacated  by  the  boats  of  the  Sea-mew.  A  burst  of  cheering  among 
the  outer  ranks  of  the  crowd  announced  the  arrival  of  the  com- 
mander of  the  expedition  on  the  scene.  Captain  Helding  appeared, 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  467 

looking  right  and  left  for  his  first  lieutenant.  Finding  Crayford 
with  his  wife,  the-captain  made  his  apologies  for  interfering,  with 
his  best  grace. 

"  Give  him  up  to  his  professional  duties  for  one  minute,  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford,  and  you  shall  have  him  back  again  for  half  an  hour.  The 
Arctic  expedition  is  to  blame,  my  dear  lady — not  the  captain — for 
parting  man  and  wife.  In  Crayford's  place,  I  should  have  left  it  to 
the  bachelors  to  find  the  North-west  Passage,  and  have  stopped  at 
home  with  you !" 

Excusing  himself  in  those  bluntly  complimentary  terms,  Captain 
Helding  drew  the  lieutenant  aside  a  few  steps,  accidentally  taking 
a  direction  that  led  the  two  officers  close  to  the  place  at  which 
Clara  was  standing.  Both  the  captain  and  the  lieutenant  were  too 
completely  absorbed  in  their  professional  business  to  notice  her. 
Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  had  the  faintest  suspicion  that  she 
could  and  did  hear  every  word  of  the  talk  that  passed  between 
them. 

"  You  received  my  note  this  morning  ?"  the  captain  began. 

"  Certainly,  Captain  Helding,  or  I  should  have  been  on  board  the 
ship  before  this." 

"  I  am  going  on  board  myself  at  once,"  the  captain  proceeded, 
"  but  I  must  ask  you  to  keep  your  boat  waiting  for  half  an  hour 
more.  You  will  lie  all  the  longer  with  your  wife,  you  know.  I 
thought  of  that,  Crayford." 

••  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Captain  Helding.  I  suppose  there  is 
Mime  other  reason  for  inverting  the  customary  order  of  things,  and 
keeping  the  lieutenant  on  shore  after  the  captain  is  on  board?" 

"  Quite  true  !  there  is  another  reason.  I  want  you  to  wait  for  a 
volunteer  who  has  just  joined  us." 

"A  volunteer!" 

"  Yes.  He  has  his  outfit  to  get  in  a  hurry,  and  he  may  be  half  an 
hour  late." 

"  It's  rather  a  sudden  appointment,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  No  doubt.     Very  sudden." 

u  And — pardon  me — it's  rather  a  long  time  (as  we  are  situated)  to 
keep  the  ships  waiting  for  one  man?" 

"  Quite  true,  again.  But  a  man  who  is  worth  having  is  worth 
waiting  for.  This  man  is  worth  having;  this  man  is  worth  his 
weight  in  gold  to  such  an  expedition  as  ours.  Seasoned  to  all  cli- 
mates and  all  fatigues  —  a  strong  fellow,  a  brave  fellow,  a  clever 
t'dlow — in  short,  an  excellent  officer.  I  know  him  well,  or  I  should 
never  have  taken  him.  The  country  gets  plenty  of  work  out  of  my 
new  volunteer,  Crayford.  He  only  returned  yesterday  from  foreign 
service." 

"  He  only  returned  yesterday  from  foreign  service !     And  he  vol- 


468  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

unteers  this  morning  to  join  the  Arctic  expedition  ?  You  astonish 
me." 

"  I  dare  say  I  do !  You  can't  be  more  astonished  than  I  was, 
when  he  presented  himself  at  my  hotel  and  told  me  what  he  want- 
ed. 'Why,  my  good  fellow,  you  ha^e  just  got  home,'  I  said.  'Are 
you  weary  of  your  freedom,  after  only  a  few  hours'  experience  of  it  ?' 
His  answer  rather  startled  me.  He  said, '  I  am  weary  of  my  life,  sir. 
I  have  come  home  and  found  a  trouble  to  welcome  me,  which  goes 
near  to  break  my  heart.  If  I  don't  take  refuge  in  absence  and  hard 
work,  I  am  a  lost  man.  Will  you  give  me  a  refuge  ?'  That's  what 
he  said,  Crayford,  word  for  word." 

"  Did  you  ask  him  to  explain  himself  further  ?" 

"  Not  I !  I  knew  his  value,  and  I  took  the  poor  devil  on  the 
spot,  without  pestering  him  with  any  more  questions.  No  need  to 
ask  him  to  explain  himself.  The  facts  speak  for  themselves  in  these 
cases.  The  old  story,  my  good  friend !  There's  a  woman  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  of  course." 

Mrs.  Crayford,  waiting  for  the  return  of  her  husband  as  patiently 
as  she  could,  was  startled  by  feeling  a  hand  suddenly  laid  on  her 
shoulder.  She  looked  round,  and  confronted  Clara.  Her  first  feel- 
ing of  surprise  changed  instantly  to  alarm.  Clara  was  trembling 
from  head  to  foot. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?    What  has  frightened  you,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Lucy !    I  have  heard  of  him  !" 

"  Richard  Wardour  again  ?" 

"Remember  what  I  told  you.  I  have  heard  every  word  of  the 
conversation  between  Captain  Helding  and  your  husband.  A  man 
came  to  the  captain  this  morning  and  volunteered  to  join  the  Wan- 
derer. The  captain  has" taken  him.  The  man  is  Richard  Wardour." 

"You  don't  mean  it!  Are  you  sure?  Did  you  hear  Captain 
Helding  mention  his  name  ?" 

"No." 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  it's  Richard  Wardour  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me !  I  am  as  certain  of  it,  as  that  I  am  standing 
here !  They  are  going  away  together,  Lucy — away  to  the  eternal 
ice  and  snow.  My  foreboding  has  come  true !  The  two  will  meet 
— the  man  who  is  to  marry  me  and  the  man  whose  heart  I  have 
broken !" 

"  Your  foreboding  has  not  come  true,  Clara  !  The  men  have  not 
met  here — the  men  are  not  likely  to  meet  elsewhere.  They  are  ap- 
pointed to  separate  ships.  Frank  belongs  to  the  Sea-mew,  and 
Wardour  to  the  Wanderer.  See  !  Captain  Helding  has  done.  My 
husband  is  coming  this  way.  Let  me  make  sure.  Let  me  speak  to 
him." 


THE    FROZEN    DEEF.  469 

Lieutenant  Crayford  returned  to  his  wife.  She  spoke  to  him  in- 
stantly. 

"  William  !  you  have  got  a  new  volunteer  who  joins  the  Wan- 
derer r 

"  What !  you  have  been  listening  to  the  captain  and  me  ?" 

"  I  want  to  know  his  ntime." 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  manage  to  hear  what  we  said  to  each 
other?" 

"  His  name  ?  has  the  captain  given  you  his  name  ?" 

"  Don't  excite  yourself,  my  dear.  Look  !  you  are  positively  alarm- 
ing Miss  Burnham.  The  new  volunteer  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  us. 
There  is  his  name — last  on  the  ship's  list. 

Mrs.  Crayford  snatched  the  list  out  of  her  husband's  hand,  and 
read  the  name : 

"  RICHARD  W  ARDOUR." 


470  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 


SECOND  SCENE. -THE  HUT  OF  THE  "SEA-MEW." 


CHAPTER  VL 

GOOD-BYE  to  England !  Good-bye  to  inhabited  and  civilized 
regions  of  the  earth ! 

Two  years  have  passed  since  the  voyagers  sailed  from  their  native 
shores.  The  enterprise  has  failed — the  Arctic  expedition  is  lost  and 
ice-locked  in  the  Polar  wastes.  The  good  ships  Wanderer  and  Sea- 
mew,  entombed  in  ice,  will  never  ride  the  buoyant  waters  more. 
Stripped  of  their  lighter  timbers,  both  vessels  have  been  used  for  the 
construction  of  huts,  erected  on  the  nearest  land. 

The  largest  of  the  two  buildings  which  now  shelter  the  lost  men 
is  occupied  by  the  surviving  officers  and  crew  of  the  Sea-mew.  On 
one  side  of  the  principal  room  are  the  sleeping  berths  and  the  fire- 
place. The  other  side  discloses  a  broad  door-way  (closed  by  a  can- 
vas screen),  which  serves  as  a  means  of  communication  with  an  in- 
ner apartment,  devoted  to  the  superior  officers.  A  hammock  is 
slung  to  the  rough  raftered  roof  of  the  main  room,  as  an  extra  bed. 
A  man,  completely  hidden  by  his  bedclothes,  is  sleeping  in  the  ham- 
mock. By  the  fireside  there  is  a  second  man  —  supposed  to  be  on 
the  watch — fast  asleep,  poor  wretch !  at  the  present  moment.  Be- 
hind the  sleeper  stands  an  old  cask,  which  serves  for  a  table.  The 
objects  at  present  on  the  table  are,  a  pestle  and  mortar,  and  a  sauce- 
panful  of  the  dry  bones  of  animals  —  in  plain  words,  the  dinner 
for  the  day.  By  way  of  ornament  to  the  dull  brown  walls,  icicles 
appear  in  the  crevices  of  the  timber,  gleaming  at  intervals  in  the  red 
fire-light.  No  wind  whistles  outside  the  lonely  dwelling — no  cry 
of  bird  or  beast  is  heard.  Indoors,  and  out-of-doors,  the  awful  si- 
lence of  the  Polar  desert  reigns,  for  the  moment,  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  first  sound  that  broke  the  silence  came  from  the  inner  apart- 
ment. An  officer  lifted  the  canvas  screen  in  the  hut  of  the  Sea-mew, 
and  entered  the  main  room.  Cold  and  privation  had  sadly  thinned 
the  ranks.  The  commander  of  the  ship — Captain  Ebsworth — was 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  471 

dangerously  ill.  The  first  lieutenant  was  dead.  An  officer  of  the 
Wanderer  filled  their  places  for  the  time,  with  Captain  Helding's 
permission.  The  officer  so  employed  was — Lieutenant  Crayford. 

He  approached  the  man  at  the  fireside,  and  awakened  him. 

"  Jump  up,  Bateson  !     It's  your  turn  to  be  relieved." 

The  relief  appeared,  rising  from  a  heap  of  old  sails  at  the  back  of 
the  hut.  Bateson  vanished,  yawning,  to  his  bed.  Lieutenant  Cray- 
ford  walked  backward  and  forward  briskly,  trying  what  exercise 
would  do  toward  warming  his  blood. 

The  pestle  and  mortar  on  the  cask  attracted  his  attention.  He 
stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  man  in  the  hammock. 

"  I  must  rouse  the  cook,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  smile.  "  That 
fellow  little  thinks  how  useful  he  is  in  keeping  up  my  spirits.  The 
most  inveterate  croaker  and  grumbler  in  the  world — and  yet,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  account,  the  only  cheerful  man  in  the  whole 
ship's  company.  John  Want !  John  Want !  Rouse  up,  there !" 

A  head  rose  slowly  out  of  the  bedclothes,  covered  with  a  red 
night-cap.  A  melancholy  nose  rested  itself  on  the  edge  of  the  ham- 
mock. A  voice,  worthy  of  the  nose,  expressed  its  opinion  of  the 
Arctic  climate,  in  these  words : 

"  Lord  !  Lord  !  here's  all  my  breath  on  my  blanket.  Icicles,  if  you 
please,  sir,  all  round  my  mouth  and  all  over  my  blanket.  Every 
time  I  have  snored,  I've  frozen  something.  When  a  man  gets  the 
cold  into  him  to  that  extent  that  he  ices  his  own  bed,  it  can't  last 
much  longer.  Never  mind  !  /don't  grumble." 

Crayford  tapped  the  saucepan  of  bones  impatiently.  John  Want 
lowered  himself  to  the  floor— grumbling  all  the  way — by  a  rope  at- 
tached to  the  rafters  at  his  bed  head.  Instead  of  approaching  his 
superior  officer  and  his  saucepan,  he  hobbled,  shivering,  to  the  fire- 
place, and  held  his  chin  as  close  as  he  possibly 'could  over  the  fire. 
Crayford  looked  after  him. 

"  Halloo  !  what  are  you  doing  there?" 

"Thawing  my  beard,  sir." 

"Come  here  directly,  and  set  to  work  on  these  bones." 

John  Want  remained  immovably  attached  to  the  fire-place,  hold- 
ing something  else  over  the  fire.  Crayford  began  to  lose  his  tem- 
per. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  about  now  ?" 

"  Thawing  my  watch,  sir.  It's  been  under  my  pillow  all  night, 
and  the  cold  has  stopped  it.  Cheerful,  wholesome,  bracing  sort  of 
climate  to  live  in ;  isn't  it,  sir?  Nevermind!  /  don't  grumble." 

"No,  we  all  know  that.  Look  here!  Are  these  bones  pounded 
small  enough  '." 

John  Want  suddenly  approached  the  lieutenant,  and  looked  at 
him  with  an  appearance  of  the  deepest  interest. 


472  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  how  very  hollow  your  voice 
sounds  this  morning !" 

"  Never  mind  my  voice.     The  bones !  the  bones !" 

"  Yes,  sir — the  bones.  They'll  take  a  trifle  more  pounding.  I'll 
do  my  best  with  them,  sir,  for  your  sake." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

John  Want  shook  his  head,  and  looked  at  Crayford  with  a  dreary 
smile. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  making  much  more  bone 
soup  for  you,  sir.  Do  you  think  yourself  you'll  last  long,  sir  ?  I 
don't,  saving  your  presence.  I  think  about  another  week  or  ten 
days  will  do  for  us  all.  Never  mind  !  /  don't  grumble." 

He  poured  the  bones  into  the  mortar,  and  began  to  pound  them 
— under  protest.  At  the  same  moment  a  sailor  appeared,  entering 
from  the  inner  hut. 

"  A  message  from  Captain  Ebsworth,  sir." 

"Well?" 

"  The  captain  is  worse  than  ever  with  his  freezing  pains,  sir.  He 
wants  to  see  you  immediately." 

"  I  will  go  at  once.     Rouse  the  doctor." 

Answering  in  those  terms,  Crayford  returned  to  the  inner  hut, 
followed  by  the  sailor.  John  Want  shook  his  head  again,  and 
smiled  more  drearily  than  ever. 

"  Rouse  the  doctor  ?"  he  repeated.  "  Suppose  the  doctor  should 
be  frozen  ?  He  hadn't  a  ha'porth  of  warmth  in  him  last  night,  and 
his  voice  sounded  like  a  whisper  in  a  speaking-trumpet.  Will  the 
bones  do  now  ?  Yes,  the  bones  will  do  now.  Into  the  saucepan 
with  you,"  cried  John  Want,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  "  and 
flavor  the  hot  water  if  you  can  !  When  I  remember  that  I  was  once 
an  apprentice  at  a  pastry-cook's — when  I  think  of  the  gallons  of 
turtle-soup  that  this  hand  has  stirred  up  in  a  jolly  hot  kitchen — 
and  when  I  find  myself  mixing  bones  and  hot  water  for  soup,  and 
turning  into  ice  as  fast  as  I  can ;  if  I  wasn't  of  a  cheerful  disposi- 
tion I  should  feel  inclined  to  grumble.  John  Want !  John  Want ! 
whatever  had  you  done  with  your  natural  senses,  when  you  made 
up  your  mind  to  go  to  sea  ?" 

A  new  voice  hailed  the  cook,  speaking  from  one  of  the  bed-places 
in  the  side  of  the  hut.  It  was  the  voice  of  Francis  Aldersley. 

"  Who's  that  croaking  over  the  fire  ?" 

"  Croaking  ?"  repeated  John  Want,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
considered  himself  the  object  of  a  gratuitous  insult.  "  Croaking  ? 
You  don't  find  your  own  voice  at  all  altered  for  the  worse — do  you, 
Mr.  Frank  ?  I  don't  give  Aim,"  John  proceeded,  speaking  confiden- 
tially to  himself,  "  more  than  six  hours  to  last.  He's  one  of  your 
grumblers." 


THE    FROZEN   DEEP.  473 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?"  asked  Frank. 

"  I'm  making  bone  soup,  sir,  and  wondering  why  I  ever  went  to 
sea." 

"Well,  and  why  did  you  go  to  sea?" 

"  I'm  not  certain,  Mr.  Frank.  Sometimes  I  think  it  was  natural 
perversity;  sometimes  I  think  it  was  false  pride  at  getting  over  sea- 
sickness ;  sometimes  I  think  it  was  reading  '  Robinson  Crusoe,'  and 
books  warning  of  me  not  to  go  to  sea." 

Frank  laughed.  "  You're  an  odd  fellow.  What  do  you  mean  by 
false  pride  at  getting  over  sea-sickness?  Did  you  get  over  sea-sick- 
ness in  some  new  way  ?" 

[John  Want's  dismal  face  brightened  in  spite  of  himself.  Frank 
had  recalled  to  the  cook's  memory  one  of  the  noteworthy  passages 
in  the  cook's  life.] 

"  That's  it,  sir !"  he  said.  "  If  ever  a  man  cured  sea-sickness  in  a 
IH  \v  way  yet,  I  am  that  man — I  got  over  it,  Mr.  Frank,  by  dint  of 
hard  eating.  I  was  a  passenger  on  board  a  packet-boat,  sir,  when 
first  I  saw  blue  water.  A  nasty  lopp  of  a  sea  came  on  at  dinner- 
time, and  I  began  to  feel  queer  the  moment  the  soup  was  put  on  the 
table.  '  Sick  ?'  says  the  captain.  '  Rather,  sir,'  says  I.  '  Will  you 
try  my  cure?'  says  the  captain.  'Certainly,  sir,'  says  I.  'Is  your 
heart  in  your  mouth  yet?'  says  the  captain.  'Not  quite,  sir,'  says  I. 
'Mock-turtle  soup?'  says  the  captain,  and  helps  me.  I  swallow  a 
couple  of  spoonfuls,  and  turn  as  white  as  a  sheet.  The  captain 
cocks  his  eye  at  me.  'Go  on  deck,  sir,'  says  he;  'get  rid  of  the 
soup,  and  then  come  back  to  the  cabin.'  I  got  rid  of  the  soup,  and 
came  back  to  the  cabin.  '  Cod's  head-and-shoulders,'  says  the  cap- 
tain, and  helps  me.  '  I  can't  stand  it,  sir,'  says  I.  '  You  must,'  says 
the  captain,  'because  it's  the  cure.'  I  crammed  down  a  mouthful, 
and  turned  paler  than  ever.  '  Go  on  deck,'  says  the  captain.  '  Get 
rid  of  the  cod's  head,  and  come  back  to  the  cabin.'  Off  I  go,  and 
back  I  come.  'Boiled  leg  of  mutton  and  trimmings,'  says  the 
captain,  and  helps  me.  'No  fat,  sir,'  says  I.  'Fat's  the  cure,'  says 
the  captain,  and  makes  me  eat  it.  '  Lean's  the  cure,'  says  the  cap- 
tain, and  makes  me  eat  it.  '  Steady  ?'  says  the  captain.  '  Sick,' 
says  I.  '  Go  on  deck,'  says  the  captain  ;  '  get  rid  of  the  boiled  leg 
of  mutton  and  trimmings,  and  come  back  to  the  cabin.'  Off  I  go, 
staggering — back  I  come,  more  dead  than  alive.  '  Deviled  kidneys,' 
says  the  captain.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  got  'em  down.  '  Cure's  be- 
ginning,' says  the  captain.  '  Mutton-chop  and  pickles.'  I  shut  my 
eyes,  and  got  them  down.  '  Broiled  ham  and  cayenne  pepper,'  says 
the  captain.  '  Glass  of  stout  and  cranberry  tart.  Want  to  go  on 
deck  again?'  'No,  sir,'  says  I.  'Cure's  done,'  says  the  captain. 
'  Never  you  give  in  to  your  stomach,  and  your  stomach  will  end  in 
giving  in  to  you?  " 

20* 


474  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

Having  stated  the  moral  purpose  of  his  story  in  those  unansjver- 
able  words,  John  Want  took  himself  and  his  saucepan  into  the 
kitchen.  A  moment  later,  Crayford  returned  to  the  hut,  and  aston- 
ished Frank  Aldersley  by  an  unexpected  question. 

"  Have  you  any  thing  in  your  berth,  Frank,  that  you  set  a  value 
on?" 

Frank  looked  puzzled. 

"  Nothing  that  I  set  the  smallest  value  on — when  I  am  out  of  it," 
he  replied.  "  What  does  your  question  mean  ?" 

"  We  are  almost  as  short  of  fuel  as  we  are  of  provisions,"  Crayford 
proceeded.  "Your  berth  will  make  good  firing.  I  have  directed 
Bateson  to  be  here  in  ten  minutes  with  his  axe." 

"  Very  attentive  and  considerate  on  your  part,"  said  Frank. 
"  What  is  to  become  of  me,  if  you  please,  when  Bateson  has  chop- 
ped my  bed  into  fire-wood  ?" 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?" 

"  I  suppose  the  cold  has  stupefied  me.  The  riddle  is  beyond  my 
reading.  Suppose  you  give  me  a  hint  ?" 

"  Certainly.  There  will  be  beds  to  spare  soon — there  is  to  be  a 
change  at  last  in  our  wretched  lives  here.  Do  you  see  it  now  ?" 

Frank's  eyes  sparkled.  He  sprang  out  of  his  berth,  and  waved  his 
fur  cap  in  triumph. 

"  See  it  ?"  he  exclaimed ;  "  of  course  I  do  !  The  exploring  party 
is  to  start  at  last.  Do  I  go  with  the  expedition  ?" 

"  It  is  not  very  long  since  you  were  in  the  doctor's  hands,  Frank," 
said  Crayford,  kindly.  "  I  doubt  if  you  are  strong  enough  yet  to 
make  one  of  the  exploring  party." 

"  Strong  enough  or  not,"  returned  Frank,  "  any  risk  is  better  than, 
pining  and  perishing  here.  Put  me  down,  Crayford,  among  those 
who  volunteer  to  go." 

"Volunteers  will  not  be  accepted,  in  this  case,"  said  Crayford. 
"Captain  Helding  and  Captain  Ebsworth  see  serious  objections,  as 
we  are  situated,  to  that  method  of  proceeding." 

"Do  they  mean  to  keep  the  appointments  in  their  own  hands?" 
asked  Frank.  "  I  for  one  object  to  that." 

"  Wait  a  little,"  said  Crayford.  "  You  were  playing  backgammon 
the  other  day  with  one  of  the  officers.  Does  the  board  belong  to 
him  or  to  you  ?" 

"  It  belongs  to  me.  I  have  got  it  in  my  locker  here.  What  do 
you  want  with  it  ?" 

"I  want  the  dice  and  the  box  for  casting  lots.  The  captains 
have  arranged — most  wisely,  as  I  think — that  Chance  shall  decide 
among  us  who  goes  with  the  expedition  and  who  stays  behind  in 
the  huts.  The  officers  and  crew  of  the  Wanderer  will  be  here  in  a 
few  minutes  to  cast  the  lots.  Neither  you  nor  any  one  can  object  to 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  475 

that  way  of  deciding  among  us.  Officers  and  men  alike  take  theif 
chance  together.  Nobody  can  grumble." 

"  I  am  quite  satisfied,"  said  Frank.  "  But  I  know  of  one  man 
among  the  officers  who  is  sure  to  make  objections." 

"Who  is  tin-  111:111  '." 

••  You  know  him  well  enough,  too.  The  '  Bear  of  the  Expedition,' 
Richard  Ward  our." 

"  Frank  !  Frank  !  you  have  a  bad  habit  of  letting  your  tongue  run 
away  with  you.  Don't  repeat  that  stupid  nickname  when  you  talk 
of  my  good  friend,  Richard  Wardour." 

•  Your  good  friend  ?  Crayford  !  your  liking  for  that  man  amazes 
me." 

Crayford  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Frank's  shoulder.  Of  all  the 
officers  of  the  Sea-mew,  Crayford's  favorite  was  Frank. 

"  Why  should  it  amaze  you  ?"  he  asked.  "  What  opportunities 
have  you  had  of  judging  ?  You  and  Wardour  have  always  belonged 
to  different  ships.  I  have  never  seen  you  in  Wardour's  society  for 
five  minutes  together.  How  can  you  form  a  fair  estimate  of  his 
diameter  '." 

"  I  take  the  general  estimate  of  his  character,"  Frank  answered. 
"  He  has  got  his  nickname  because  he  is  the  most  unpopular  man 
in  his  ship.  Nobody  likes  him  —  there  must  be  some  reason  for 
that." 

"There  is  only  one  reason  for  it,"  Crayford  rejoined.  "Nobody 
understands  Richard  Wardour.  I  am  not  talking  at  random.  Re- 
member, I  sailed  from  England  with  him  in  the  Wanderer ;  and  I 
was  only  transferred  to  the  Sea-mew  long  after  we  were  locked  up 
in  the  ice.  I  was  Richard  Wardour's  companion  on  board  ship  for 
months,  and  I  learned  there  to  do  him  justice.  Under  all  his  out- 
ward defects,  I  tell  you,  there  beats  a  great  and  generous  heart. 
Suspend  your  opinion,  my  lad,  until  you  know  my  friend  as  well  as 
I  do.  No  more  of  this  now.  Give  me  the  dice  and  the  box." 

Frank  opened  his  locker.  At  the  same  moment  the  silence  of  the 
snowy  waste  outside  was  broken  by  a  shouting  of  voices  hailing  the 
hut — "  Sea-mew,  ahoy  !" 


CHAPTER  VHL 

THE  sailor  on  watch  opened  the  outer  door.  There,  plodding 
over  the  ghastly  white  snow,  were  the  officers  of  the  Wanderer  ap- 
proaching the  hut.  There,  scattered  under  the  merciless  black  sky, 
were  the  crew,  with  the  dogs  and  the  sledges,  waiting  the  word 
which  was  to  start  them  on  their  perilous  and  doubtful  journey.. 

Captain  Helding  of  the  Wanderer,  accompanied  by  his  officers, 


476  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

entered  the  hut,  in  high  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  a  change.  Be- 
hind them,  lounging  in  slowly  by  himself,  was  a  dark,  sullen,  heavy- 
browed  man.  He  neither  spoke,  nor  offered  his  hand  to  any  body : 
he  was  the  one  person  present  who  seemed  to  be  perfectly  indiffer- 
ent to  the  fate  in  store  for  him.  This  was  the  man  whom  his  broth- 
er officers  had  nicknamed  the  Bear  of  the  Expedition.  In  other 
words — Richard  Wardour. 

Crayford  advanced  to  welcome  Captain  Helding.  Frank,  remem- 
bering the  friendly  reproof  which  he  had  just  received,  passed  over 
the  other  officers  of  the  Wanderer,  and  made  a  special  effort  to  be 
civil  to  Crayford's  friend. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  "Wardour,"  he  said.  "  We  may  congratulate 
each  other  on  the  chance  of  leaving  this  horrible  place." 

'•'•You  may  think  it  horrible,"  Wardour  retorted  ;  "  I  like  it." 

"  Like  it  ?     Good  heavens  !  why  ?" 

"  Because  there  are  no  women  here." 

Frank  turned  to  his  brother  officers,  without  making  any  further 
advances  in  the  direction  of  Richard  Wardour.  The  Bear  of  the 
Expedition  was  more  unapproachable  than  ever. 

In  the  mean  time  the  hut  had  become  thronged  by  the  able-bodied 
officers  and  men  of  the  two  ships.  Captain  Helding,  standing  in  the 
midst  of  them,  with  Crayford  by  his  side,  proceeded  to  explain  the 
purpose  of  the  contemplated  expedition  to  the  audience  which  sur- 
rounded him: 

He  began  in  these  words : 

"  Brother  officers  and  men  of  the  Wanderer  and  Sea-mew,  it  is  my 
duty  to  tell  you,  very  briefly,  the  reasons  which  have  decided  Cap- 
tain Ebsworth  and  myself  on  dispatching  an  exploring  party  in 
search  of  help.  Without  recalling  all  the  hardships  we  have  suffer- 
ed for  the  last  two  years — the  destruction,  first  of  one  of  our  ships, 
then  of  the  other  ;  the  death  of  some  of  our  bravest  and  best  com- 
panions ;  the  vain  battles  we  have  been  fighting  with  the  ice  and 
snow,  and  boundless  desolation  of  these  inhospitable  regions — with- 
out dwelling  on  these  things,  it  is  my  duty  to  remind  you  that  this, 
the  last  place  in  which  we  have  taken  refuge,  is  far  beyond  the 
track  of  any  previous  expedition,  and  that  consequently  our  chance 
of  being  discovered  by  any  rescuing  parties  .that  may  be  sent  to 
look  after  us  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  chance  of  the  most  uncertain 
kind.  You  all  agree  with  me,  gentlemen,  so  far  ?" 

The  officers  (with  the  exception  of  Wardour,  who  stood  apart  in 
sullen  silence)  all  agreed,  so  far. 

The  captain  went  on. 

"  It  is  therefore  urgently  necessary  that  we  should  make  another, 
and  probably  a  last,  effort  to  extricate  ourselves.  The  winter  is  not 
far  off,  game  is  getting  scarcer  and  scarcer,  our  stock  of  provisions 


THE    FROZEX    DEEP.  477 

is  running  low,  and  the  sick — especially,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  the  sick 
in  the  Wanderer's  hut — are  increasing  in  number  day  by  day.  We 
must  look  to  our  own  lives,  and  to  the  lives  of  those  who  are  de- 
pendent on  us ;  and  we  have  no  time  to  lose." 

The  officers  echoed  the  words  cheerfully. 

'•  Right !  right !     No  time  to  lose." 

Captain  Holding  resumed : 

"The  plan  proposed  is,  that  a  detachment  of  the  able-bodied 
officers  and  men  among  us  should  set  forth  this  very  day,  and  make 
another  effort  to  reach  the  nearest  inhabited  settlements,  from  which 
help  and  provisions  may  be  dispatched  to  those  who  remain  here. 
The  new  direction  to  be  taken,  and  the  various  precautions  to  be 
adopted,  are  all  drawn  out  ready.  The  only  question  now  before 
us  is,  Who  is  to  stop  here,  and  who  is  to  undertake  the  journey  ?" 

The  officers  answered  the  question  with  one  accord  — "  Volun- 
teers !" 

The  men  echoed  their  officers.     "  Ay,  ay,  volunteers." 

Wardour  still  preserved  his  sullen  silence.  Crayford  noticed  him, 
standing  apart  from  the  rest,  and  appealed  to  him  personally. 

"  Do  you  say  nothing  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  Wardour  answered.     "  Go  or  stay,  it's  all  one  to  me." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  really  mean  that  ?"  said  Crayford. 

"I  do." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  Wardour." 

Captain  Helding  answered  the  general  suggestion  in  favor  of  vol- 
unteering by  a  question  which  instantly  checked  the  rising  enthusi- 
asm of  the  meeting. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  suppose  we  say  volunteers.  Who  volunteers  to 
stop  in  the  huts  ?" 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  The  officers  and  men  looked  at  each 
other  confusedly.  The  captain  continued : 

"  You  see  we  can't  settle  it  by  volunteering.  You  all  want  to  go. 
Every  man  among  us  who  has  the  use  of  his  limbs  naturally  wants 
to  go.  But  what  is  to  become  of  those  who  have  not  got  the  use 
of  their  limbs  ?  Some  of  us  must  stay  here,  and  take  care  of  the 
sick." 

Every  body  admitted  that  this  was  true. 

"  So  we  get  back  again,"  said  the  captain,  "  to  the  old  question — 
Who  among  the  able-bodied  is  to  go  ?  and  who  is  to  stay  ?  Cap- 
tain Ebsworth  says,  and  I  say,  let  chance  decide  it.  Here  are  dice. 
The  numbers  run  as  high  as  twelve — double  sixes.  All  who  throw 
under  six,  stay;  all  who  throw  over  six,  go.  Officers  of  the  Wanderer 
und  the  Sai-m<'ir.  do  you  agree  to  that  way  of  meeting  the  difficulty?" 

All  the  officers  agreed,  with  the  one  exception  of  Wardour,  who 
still  kept  silence. 


478  THE   FROZEN    DEEP. 

"  Men  of  the  Wanderer  and  Sea-mew,  your  officers  agree  to  cast 
lots.  Do  you  agree  too  ?" 

The  men  agreed  without  a  dissentient  voice.  Crayford  handed 
the  box  and  the  dice  to  Captain  Helding. 

"  You  throw  first,  sir.     Under  six, '  Stay.'     Over  six, '  Go.' " 

Captain  Helding  cast  the  dice ;  the  top  of  the  cask  serving  for  a 
table.  He  threw  seven. 

"  Go,"  said  Crayford.  "  I  congratulate  you,  sir.  Now  for  my  own 
chance."  He  cast  the  dice  in  his  turn.  Three  !  "  Stay  !  Ah,  well ! 
well !  if  I  can  do  my  duty,  and  be  of  use'  to  others,  what  does  it 
matter  whether  I  go  or  stay  ?  Wardour,  you  are  next,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  your  first  lieutenant." 

Wardour  prepared  to  cast,  without  shaking  the  dice. 

"  Shake  the  box,  man !"  cried  Crayford.  "  Give  yourself  a  chance 
of  luck !" 

Wardour  persisted  in  letting  the  dice  fall  out  carelessly,  just  as 
they  lay  in  the  box. 

"Not  I!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "'I've  done  with  luck."  Say- 
ing those  words,  he  threw  down  the  empty  box,  and  seated  himself 
on  the  nearest  chest,  without  looking  to  see  how  the  dice  had  fallen. 

Crayford  examined  them.  "  Six  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  There !  you 
have  a  second  chance,  in  spite  of  yourself.  You  are  neither  under 
nor  over — you  throw  again." 

"  Bah !"  growled  the  Bear.  "  It's  not  worth  the  trouble  of  get- 
ting up  for.  Somebody  else  throw  for  me."  He  suddenly  looked 
at  Frank.  "  You  !  you  have  got  what  the  women  call  a  lucky  face." 

Frank  appealed  to  Crayford.     "  Shall  I  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  he  wishes  it,"  said  Crayford. 

Frank  cast  the  dice.  "  Two  !  He  stays  !  Wardour,  I  am  sorry  I 
have  thrown  against  you." 

"  Go  or  stay,"  reiterated  Wardour,  "  it's  all  one  to  me.  You  will 
be  luckier,  young  one,  when  you  cast  for  yourself." 

Frank  cast  for  himself. 

"  Eight.     Hurra !     I  go  !" 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  said  Wardour.  "  The  chance  was  yours. 
You  have  thriven  on  my  ill  luck." 

He  rose,  as  he  spoke,  to  leave  the  hut.     Crayford  stopped  him. 

"  Have  you  any  thing  particular  to  do,  Richard  ?" 

"  What  has  any  body  to  do  here  ?" 

"  Wait  a  little,  then.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  when  this  business 
is  over." 

"  Are  you  going  to  give  me  any  more  good  advice  ?" 

"  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  sour  way,  Richard.  I  am  going  to  ask 
you  a  question  about  something  which  concerns  yourself."  * 

Wardour  yielded  without  a  word  more.      He   returned  to  his 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  479 

chest,  and  cynically  composed  himself  to  slumber.  The  casting  of 
the  lots  went  on  rapidly  among  the  officers  and  men.  In  another 
half-hour  chance  had  decided  the  question  of  "  Go  "  or  "  Stay  "  for 
all  alike.  The  men  left  the  hut.  The  officers  entered  the  inner 
apartment  for  a  last  conference  with  the  bed-ridden  captain  of  the 
Sea-mew.  Wardour  and  Crayford  were  left  together,  alone. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CRATFORD  touched  his  friend  on  the  shoulder  to  rouse  him. 
Wardour  looked  up,  impatiently,  with  a  frown. 

"  I  was  just  asleep,"  he  said.     "  Why  do  you  wake  me  ?" 

"  Look  round  you,  Richard.     We  are  alone." 

«  Well— and  what  of  that  ?" 

•'  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  privately ;  and  this  is  my  opportunity. 
You  have  disappointed  and  surprised  me  to-day.  Why  did  you  say 
it  was  all  one  to  you  whether  you  went  or  staid  ?  Why  are  you  the 
only  man  among  us  who  seems  to  be  perfectly  indifferent  whether 
we  are  rescued  or  not  ?" 

"  Can  a  man  always  give  a  reason  for  what  is  strange  in  his  man- 
ner or  his  words  ?"  Wardour  retorted. 

"  He  can  try,"  said  Crayford,  quietly — "  when  his  friend  asks  him." 

Wardour's  manner  softened. 

"  That's  true,"  he  said.  "  I  will  try.  Do  you  remember  the  first 
night  at  sea  when  we  sailed  from  England  in  the  Wanderer  /" 

"As  well  as  if  it  was  yesterday.'1 

"A  calm,  still  night,"  the  other  went  on,  thoughtfully.  "$o 
clouds,  no  stars.  Nothing  in  the  sky  but  the  broad  moon,  and  hard- 
ly a  ripple  to  break  the  path  of  light  she  made  in  the  quiet  water. 
Mine  was  the  middle  watch  that  night.  You  came  on  deck,  and 
found  me  alone — " 

He  stopped.  Crayford  took  his  hand,  and  finished  the  sentence 
for  him. 

"Alone — and  in  tears." 

"  The  last  I  shall  ever  shed,"  Wardour  added,  bitterly. 

"  Don't  say  that !  There  are  times  when  a  man  is  to  be  pitied  in- 
deed, if  he  can  shed  no  tears.  Go  on,  Richard." 

Wardour  proceeded  —  still  following  the  old  recollections,  still 
preserving  his  gentler  tones. 

"  I  should  have  quarreled  with  any  other  man  who  had  surprised 
me  at  that  moment,''  he  said.  "  There  was  something,  I  suppose,  in 
your  voice  when  you  asked  my  pardon  for  disturbing  me,  that  soft- 
ened my  heart.  I  told  you  I  had  met  with  a  disappointment  which 


480  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

had  broken  me  for  life.  There  was  no  need  to  explain  further. 
The  only  hopeless  wretchedness  in  this  world  is  the  wretchedness 
that  women  cause." 

"  And  the  only  unalloyed  happiness,"  said  Crayford,  "  the  happi- 
ness that  women  bring." 

"  That  may  be  your  experience  of  them,"  Wardour  answered ; 
"  mine  is  different.  All  the  devotion,  the  patience,  the  humility,  the 
worship  that  there  is  in  man,  I  laid  at  the  feet  of  a  woman.  She 
accepted  the  offering  as  women  do  —  accepted  it,  easily,  graceful- 
ly, unfeelingly — accepted  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  left  England 
to  win  a  high  place  in  my  profession,  before  I  dared  to  win  her.  I 
braved  danger,  and  faced  death.  I  staked  my  life  in  the  fever 
swamps  of  Africa,  to  gain  the  promotion  that  I  only  desired  for  her 
sake — and  gained  it.  I  came  back  to  give  her  all,  and  to  ask  noth- 
ing in  return,  but  to  rest  my  weary  heart  in  the  sunshine  of  her 
smile!  And  her  own  lips — the  lips  I  had  kissed  at  parting — told 
me  that  another  man  had  robbed  me  of  her.  I  spoke  but  few  words 
when  I  heard  that  confession,  and  left  her  forever.  '  The  time  may 
come,'  I  told  her,  '  when  I  shall  forgive  you.  But  the  man  who  has 
robbed  me  of  you  shall  rue  the  day  when  you  and  he  first  met.' 
Don't  ask  me  who  he  was !  I  have  yet  to  discover  him.  The 
treachery  had  been  kept  secret ;  nobody  could  tell  me  where  to  find 
him ;  nobody  could  tell  me  who  he  was.  What  did  it  matter  ? 
When  I  had  lived  out  the  first  agony,  I  could  rely  on  myself — I 
could  be  patient,  and  bide  my  time." 

"  Your  time  ?    What  time  ?" 

"  The  time  when  I  and  that  man  shall  meet  face  to  face.  I  knew 
it  then ;  I  know  it  now — it  was  written  on  my  heart  then,  it  is  writ- 
ten on  my  heart  now — we  two  shall  meet  and  know  each  other ! 
With  that  conviction  strong  within  me,  I  volunteered  for  this  serv- 
ice, as  I  would  have  volunteered  for  any  thing  that  set  work  and 
hardship  and  danger,  like  ramparts,  between  my  misery  and  me. 
With  that  conviction  strong  within  me  still,  I  tell  you  it  is  no  mat- 
ter whether  I  stay  here  with  the  sick,  or  go  hence  with  the  strong. 
I  shall  live  till  I  have  met  that  man  !  There  is  a  day  of  reckoning 
appointed  between  us.  Here  in  the  freezing  cold,  or  away  in  the 
deadly  heat ;  in  battle  or  in  shipwreck ;  in  the  face  of  starvation ; 
under  the  shadow  of  pestilence  —  I,  though  hundreds  are  falling 
round  me,  I  shall  live  !  live  for  the  coming  of  one  day!  live  for  the 
meeting  with  one  man !" 

He  stopped,  trembling,  body  and  soul,  under  the  hold  that  his 
own  terrible  superstition  had  fastened  on  him.  Crayford  drew  back 
in  silent  horror.  Wardour  noticed  the  action — he  resented  it — he 
appealed,  in  defense  of  his  one  cherished  conviction,  to  Crayford's 
own  experience  of  him. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  481 

"  Look  at  me  !"  he  cried.  "  Look  how  I  have  lived  and  thriven, 
with  the  heart-ache  gnawing  at  me  at  home,  and  the  winds  of  the 
icy  north  whistling  round  me  here  !  I  am  the  strongest  man  among 
you.  Why  ?  I  have  fought  through  hardships  that  have  laid  the 
best-seasoned  men  of  all  our  party  on  their  backs.  Why  ?  What 
li;i\r  /  done,  that  my  life  should  throb  as  bravely  through  every 
vein  in  my  body  at  this  minute,  and  in  this  deadly  place,  as  ever  it 
did  in  the  wholesome  breezes  of  home  ?  What  am  I  preserved  for  ? 
I  tell  you  again,  for  the  coming  of  one  day — for  the  meeting  with 
one  man." 

He  paused  once  more.     This  time  Crayford  spoke. 

"  Richard  !"  he  said,  "  since  we  first  met,  I  have  believed  in  your 
l>etter  nature,  against  all  outward  appearance.  I  have  believed  in 
you,  firmly,  truly,  as  your  brother  might.  You  are  putting  that  be- 
lief to  a  hard  test.  If  your  enemy  had  told  me  that  you  had  ever 
talked  as  you  talk  now,  that  you  had  ever  looked  as  you  look  now, 
I  would  have  turned  my  back  on  him  as  the  utterer  of  a  vile  calum- 
ny against  a  just,  a  brave,  an  upright  man.  Oh  !  my  friend,  my 
friend,  if  ever  I  have  deserved  well  of  you,  put  away  these  thoughts 
from  your  heart !  F«ce  me  again,  with  the  stainless  look  of  a  man 
who  has  trampled  under  his  feet  the  bloody  superstitions  of  revenge, 
ami  knows  them  no  more  !  Never,  never,  let  the  time  come  when  I 
can  not  offer  you  my  hand  as  I  offer  it  now,  to  the  man  I  can  still 
admire — to  the  brother  I  can  still  love  !" 

The  heart  that  no  other  voice  could  touch  felt  that  appeal.  The 
fierce  eyes,  the  hard  voice,  softened  under  Crayford's  influence. 
Richard  Wardour's  head  sank  on  his  breast. 

"You  are  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,"  he  said.  "Be  kinder 
still,  and  forget  what  I  have  been  talking  about.  No!  no  more 
about  me ;  I  am  not  worth  it.  We'll  change  the  subject,  and  never 
go  back  to  it  again.  Let's  do  something.  Work,  Crayford — that's 
the  true  elixir  of  our  life !  Work,  that  stretches  the  muscles,  and 
sets  the  blood  a-glowing.  Work,  that  tires  the  body  and  rests  the 
mind.  Is  there  nothing  in  hand  that  I  can  do?  Nothing  to  cut? 
nothing  to  carry  ?" 

The  door  opened  as  he  put  the  question.  Bateson — appointed  to 
chop  Frank's  bed-place  into  firing  —  appeared  punctually  with  his 
axe.  Wardour,  without  a  word  of  warning,  snatched  tbe  axe  out 
of  the  man's  hand. 

"  What  was  this  wanted  for  ?"  he  asked. 

"  To  cut  up  Mr.  Aldersley's  berth  there  into  firing,  sir." 

"  I'll  do  it  for  you  !  I'll  have  it  down  in  no  time  !"  He  turned 
to  Crayford.  "You  needn't  he  afraid  about  me,  old  friend.  I  am 
going  to  do  the  right  thing.  I  am  going  to  tire  my  body,  and  rest 
my  mind." 


482  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

The  evil  spirit  in  him  was  plainly  subdued — for  the  time,  at  least. 
Crayford  took  his  hand  in  silence ;  and  then  (followed  by  Bateson) 
left  him  to  his  work. 


CHAPTER  X. 

AXE  in  hand,  Wardour  approached  Frank's  bed-place. 

"  If  I  could  only  cut  the  thoughts  out  of  me,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  as  I  am  going  to  cut  the  billets  out  of  this  wood !"  He  attacked 
the  bed-place  with  the  axe,  like  a  man  who  well  knew  the  use  of  his 
instrument.  "  Oh  me  !"  he  thought,  sadly,  "  if  I  had  only  been  born 
a  carpenter  instead  of  a  gentleman !  A  good  axe,  Master  Bateson — 
I  wonder  where  you  got  it?  Something  like  a  grip,  my  man,  on 
this  handle.  Poor  Crayford  !  his  words  stick  in  my  throat.  A  fine 
fellow !  a  noble  fellow  !  No  use  thinking,  no  use  regretting ;  what 
is  said,  is  said.  Work  !  work !  work !" 

Plank  after  plank  fell  out  on  the  floor.  He  laughed  over  the 
easy  task  of  destruction.  "Aha !  young  Aldersley  !  It  doesn't  take 
much  to  demolish  your  bed  -  place.  I'll  have  it  down !  I  would 
have  the  whole  hut  down,  if  they  would  only  give  me  the  chance  of 
chopping  at  it !" 

A  long  strip  of  wood  fell  to  his  axe — long  enough  to  require  cut- 
ting in  two.  He  turned  it,  and  stooped  over  it.  Something  caught 
his  eye — letters  carved  in  the  wood.  He  looked  closer.  The  letters 
were  very  faintly  and  badly  cut.  He  could  only  make  out  the  first 
three  of  them ;  and  even  of  those  he  was  not  quite  certain.  They 
looked  like  C.  L.  A. — if  they  looked  like  any  thing.  He  threw  down 
the  strip  of  wood  irritably. 

"  D — n  the  fellow  (whoever  he  is)  who  cut  this !  Why  should  he 
carve  that  name,  of  all  the  names  in  the  world  ?" 

He  paused,  considering — then  determined  to  go  on  again  with  his 
self-imposed  labor.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  own  outburst.  He  look- 
ed eagerly  for  the  axe.  "  Work,  work !  Nothing  for  it  but  work." 
He  found  the  axe,  and  went  on  again. 

He  cut  out  another  plank. 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  it  suspiciously. 

There  was  carving  again,  on  this  plank.  The  letters  F.  and  A. 
appeared  on  it. 

He  put  down  the  axe.  There  were  vague  misgivings  in  him 
which  he  was  not  able  to  realize.  The  state  of  his  own  mind  was 
fast  becoming  a  puzzle  to  him. 

"  More  carving,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  That's  the  way  these 
young  idlers  employ  their  long  hours.  F.  A.  ?  Those  must  be  his 


I  II  K    FROZEN    DEEP.  483 

initials  —  Frank  Aldersley.  Who  carved  the  letters  on  the  other 
plank  ?  Frank  Aldersley,  too  ?" 

He  turned  the  piece  of  wood  in  his  hand  nearer  to  the  light,  and 
looked  lower  down  it.  More  carving  again,  lower  down !  Under 
the  initials  F.  A.  were  two  more  letters— C.  B. 

"  C.  B.  ?"  he  repeated  to  himself.  "  Ilis  sweetheart's  initials,  I  sup- 
pose ?  Of  course — at  his  age — his  sweetheart's  initials." 

He  paused  once  more.  A  spasm  of  inner  pain  showed  the  shadow 
of  its  mysterious  passage,  outwardly  on  his  face. 

"  Her  cipher  is  C.  B.,"  he  said,  in  low,  broken  tones.  "  C.  B. — 
Clara  Burnham." 

He  waited,  with  the  plank  in  his  hand ;  repeating  the  name  over 
and  over  again,  as  if  it  was  a  question  he  was  putting  to  himself. 

"  Clara  Burnham  ?     Clara  Burnham  P 

He  dropped  the  plank,  and  turned  deadly  pale  in  a  moment.  His 
eyes  wandered  furtively  backward  and  forward  between  the  strip 
of  wood  on  the  floor  and  the  half-  demolished  berth.  "  Oh  God ! 
what  has  come  to  me  now  ?"  he  said  to  himself,  in  a  whisper.  He 
snatched  up  the  axe,  with  a  strange  cry — something  between  rage 
and  terror.  He  tried— fiercely,  desperately  tried — to  go  on  with  his 
work.  No  !  strong  as  he  was,  he  could  not  use  the  axe.  His  hands 
were  helpless ;  they  trembled  incessantly.  He  went  to  the  fire ;  he 
held  his  hands  over  it.  They  still  trembled  incessantly;  they  infect- 
ed the  rest  of  him.  He  shuddered  all  over.  He  knew  fear.  His 
own  thoughts  terrified  him. 

"  Crayford !"  he  cried  out.  "  Crayford !  come  here,  and  let's  go 
hunting." 

No  friendly  voice  answered  him.  No  friendly  face  showed  itself 
at  the  door. 

An  interval  passed;  and  there  came  over  him  another  change. 
He  recovered  his  self-possession  almost  as  suddenly  as  he  had  lost 
it.  A  smile — a  horrid,  deforming,  unnatural  smile — spread  slowly, 
stealthily,  devilishly  over  his  face.  He  left  the  fire;  he  put  the  axe 
away  softly  in  a  corner;  he  sat  down  in  his  old  place,  deliberately 
self-abandoned  to  a  frenzy  of  vindictive  joy.  He  had  found  the 
man  !  There,  at  the  end  of  the  world — there,  at  the  last  fight  of  the 
Arctic  voyagers  against  starvation  and  death,  he  had  found  the  man ! 

The  minutes  passed. 

He  became  conscious,  on  a  sudden  of  a  freezing  stream  of  air 
pourvig  irt.»  flu  rovtc. 

He  turned,  and  saw  Crayford  opening  the  door  of  the  hut.  A 
man  was  behind  him.  Wardour  rose  eagerly,  and  looked  over  Cray- 
ford's  shoulder. 

Was  it — could  it  be — the  man  who  had  carved  the  letters  on  the 
plank  ?  Yes  !  Frank  Aldersley  ! 


484  THE   FROZEN  DEEP. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  STILL  at  work !"  Crayford  exclaimed,  looking  at  the  half-demol- 
ished bed -place.  "Give  yourself  a  little  rest,  Richard.  The  ex- 
ploring party  is  ready  to  start.  If  you  wish  to  take  leave  of  your 
brother  officers  before  they  go,  you  have  no  time  to  lose." 

He  checked  himself  there,  looking  Wardour  full  in  the  face. 

"  Good  heavens !"  he  cried,  "  how  pale  you  are  !  Has  any  thing 
happened  ?" 

Frank — searching  in  his  locker  for  articles  of  clothing  which  he 
might  require  on  the  journey — looked  round.  He  was  startled,  as 
Crayford  had  been  startled,  by  the  sudden  change  in  Wardour  since 
they  had  last  seen  him. 

"  Are  you  ill  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  hear  you  have  been  doing  Bateson's 
work  for  him.  Have  you  hurt  yourself?" 

Wardour  suddenly  moved  his  head,  so  as  to  hide  his  face  from 
both  Crayford  and  Frank.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and 
wound  it  clumsily  round  his  left  hand. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  I  hurt  myself  with  the  axe.  It's  nothing. 
Never  mind.  Pain  always  has  a  curious  effect  on  me.  I  tell  you 
it's  nothing !  Don't  notice  it !" 

He  turned  his  face  toward  them  again  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
turned  it  away.  He  advanced  a  few  steps,  and  addressed  himself 
with  an  uneasy  familiarity  to  Frank. 

"  I  didn't  answer  you  civilly  when  you  spoke  to  me  some  little 
time  since.  I  mean  when  I  first  came  in  here  along  with  the  rest  of 
them.  I  apologize.  Shake  hands !  How  are  you  ?  Ready  for  the 
march  ?" 

Frank  met  the  oddly  abrupt  advance  which  had  been  made  to 
him  with  perfect  good  humor. 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  friends  with  you,  Mr.  Wardour.  I  wish  I  was 
as  well  seasoned  to  fatigue  as  you  are." 

Wardour  burst  into  a  hard,  joyless,  unnatural  laugh. 

"  Not  strong,  eh  ?  You  don't  look  it.  The  dice  had  better  have 
sent  me  away,  and  kept  you  here.  I  never  felt  in  better  condition 
in  my  life."  He  paused  and  added,  with  his  eye  on  Frank,  and 
with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  words :  "  We  men  of  Kent  are  made 
of  tough  material." 

Frank  advanced  a  step  on  his  side,  with  a  new  interest  in  Rich- 
ard Wardour. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  485 

"  You  come  from  Kent  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  From  East  Kent."  He  waited  a  little  once  more,  and 
looked  hard  at  Frank.  "  Do  you  know  that  part  of  the  country  ?" 
he  askr.l. 

"  I  ought  to  know  something  about  East  Kent,"  Frank  answered. 
"  Some  dear  friends  of  mine  once  lived  there." 

••  Friends  of  yours  ?"  Wardour  repeated.  "  One  of  the  county 
families,  I  suppose?" 

As  he  put  the  question,  he  abruptly  looked  over  his  shoulder. 
He  was  standing  between  Crayford  and  Frank.  Crayford,  taking 
no  part  in  the  conversation,  had  been  watching  him,  and  listening 
to  him  more  and  more  attentively  as  that  conversation  went  on. 
Within  the  last  moment  or  two  Wardour  had  become  instinctively 
conscious  of  this.  He  resented  Crayford's  conduct  with  needless 
irritability. 

"  Why  are  you  staring  at  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why  are  you  looking  unlike  yourself?"  Crayford  answered, 
quietly. 

Wardour  made  no  reply.  He  renewed  the  conversation  with 
Frank. 

"  One  of  the  county  families  ?"  he  resumed.  "  The  Witherbys  of 
Yew  Grange,  I  dare  say  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Frank ;  "  but  friends  of  the  Witherbys,  very  likely. 
The  Burnhams." 

Desperately  as  he  struggled  to  maintain  it,  Wardour's  self-control 
failed  him.  He  started  violently.  The  clumsily -wound  handker- 
chief fell  off  his  hand.  Still  looking  at  him  attentively,  Crayford 
picked  it  up. 

"  There  is  your  handkerchief,  Richard,"  he  said.     "  Strange !" 

-What  is  strange?" 

"  You  told  us  you  had  hurt  yourself  with  the  axe — " 

"  Well  ?" 

"  There  is  no  blood  on  your  handkerchief." 

Wardour  snatched  the  handkerchief  out  of  Crayford's  hand,  and, 
turning  away,  approached  the  outer  door  of  the  hut.  "  No  blood  on 
the  handkerchief,"  he  said  to  himself.  ''There  may  be  a  stain  or 
two  when  Crayford  sees  it  again."  He  stopped  within  a  few  paces 
of  the  door,  and  spoke  to  Crayford.  "  You  recommended  me  to 
take  leave  of  my  brother  officers  before  it  was  too  late,"  he  said.  "I 
am  going  to  follow  your  advice." 

The  door  was  opened  from  the  outer  side  as  he  laid  his  hand  on 
the  lock. 

One  of  the  quartermasters  of  the  Wanderer  entered  the  hut. 

"  Is  Captain  Helding  here,  sir  if"  he  asked,  addressing  himself  to 
Wardour. 


486  THE   FROZEN   DEEP. 

"Wardour  pointed  to  Crayford. 

"  The  lieutenant  will  tell  you,"  he  said. 

Crayford  advanced  and  questioned  the  quartermaster. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  Captain  Helding  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  a  report  to  make,  sir.  There  has  been  an  accident  on 
the  ice." 

"  To  one  of  your  men  ?" 

"  No,  sir.     To  one  of  our  officers." 

Wardour,  on  the  point  of  going  out,  paused  when  the  quarter- 
master made  that  reply.  For  a  moment  he  considered  with  himself. 
Then  he  walked  slowly  back  to  the  part  of  the  room  in  which 
Frank  was  standing.  Crayford,  directing  the  quartermaster,  point- 
ed to  the  arched  door-way  in  the  side  of  the  hut. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  the  accident,"  he  said.  "  You  will  find 
Captain  Helding  in  that  room." 

For  the  second  time,  with  singular  persistency,  Wardour  renewed 
the  conversation  with  Frank. 

"  So  you  knew  the  Burnhams  ?"  he  said.  "  What  became  of  Clara 
when  her  father  died  ?" 

Frank's  face  flushed  angrily  on  the  instant. 

"  Clara !"  he  repeated.  "  What  authorizes  you  to  speak  of  Miss 
Burnham  in  that  familiar  manner  ?" 

Wardour  seized  the  opportunity  of  quarreling  with  him. 

"  What  right  have  you  to  ask  ?"  he  retorted,  coarsely. 

Frank's  blood  was  up.  He  forgot  his  promise  to  Clara  to  keep 
their  engagement  secret — he  forgot  every  thing  but  the  unbridled 
insolence  of  Wardour's  language  and  manner. 

"A  right  which  I  insist  on  your  respecting,"  he  answered.  "  The 
right  of  being  engaged  to  marry  her." 

Crayford's  steady  eyes  were  still  on  the  watch,  and  Wardour  felt 
them  on  him.  A  little  more,  and  Crayford  might  openly  interfere. 
Even  Wardour  recognized  for  once  the  necessity  of  controlling  his 
temper,  cost  him  what  it  might.  He  made  his  apologies,  with  over- 
strained politeness,  to  Frank. 

"  Impossible  to  dispute  such  a  right  as  yours,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps 
you  will  excuse  me  when  you  know  that  I  am  one  of  Miss  Burn- 
ham's  old  friends.  My  father  and  her  father  were  neighbors.  We 
have  always  met  like  brother  and  sis.ter — 

Frank  generously  stopped  the  apology  there. 

"  Say  no  more,"  he  interposed.  "  I  was  in  the  wrong — I  lost  my 
temper.  Pray  forgive  me." 

Wardour  looked  at  him  with  a  strange,  reluctant  interest  while 
he  was  speaking.  Wardour  asked  an  extraordinary  question  when 
he  had  done. 

"  Is  she  very  fond  of  you  ?" 


THE  FROZEN  DEEP.  4B7 

Prank  burst  out  laughing. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  come  to  our  wedding,  and  judge  for 
yourself." 

"Come  to  your  wedding?"  As  he  repeated  the  words Wardour 
stole  one  glance  at  Frank,  which  Frank  (employed  in  buckling  his 
knapsack)  failed  to  see.  Crayford  noticed  it,  and  Crayford's  blood 
ran  cold.  Comparing  the  words  which  Wardour  had  spoken  to 
him  while  they  were  alone  together  with  the  words  that  had  just 
passed  in  his  presence,  he  could  draw  but  one  conclusion.  The 
woman  whom  Wardour  had  loved  and  lost  was — Clara  Burnham. 
The  man  who  had  robbed  him  of  her  was  Frank  Aldersley.  And 
Wardour  had  discovered  it  in  the  interval  since  they  had  last  met. 
"  Thank  God  !"  thought  Crayford,  "  the  dice  have  parted  them ! 
Frank  goes  with  the  expedition,  and  Wardour  stays  behind  with 
me." 

The  reflection  had  barely  occurred  to  him — Frank's  thoughtless 
invitation  to  Wardour  had  just  passed  his  lips  —  when  the  canvas 
screen  over  the  door-way  was  drawn  aside.  Captain  Helding  and 
the  officers  who  were  to  leave  with  the  exploring  party  returned  to 
the  main  room  on  their  way  out.  Seeing  Crayford,  Captain  Helding 
stopped  to  speak  to  him. 

"  I  have  a  casualty  to  report,"  said  the  captain,  "  which  dimin- 
ishes our  numbers  by  one.  My  second  lieutenant,  who  was  to  have 
joined  the  exploring  party,  has  had  a  fall  on  the  ice.  Judging  by 
what  the  quartermaster  tells  me,  I  am  afraid  the  poor  fellow  has 
broken  his  leg." 

"  I  will  supply  his  place,"  cried  a  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the 
hut. 

Every  body  looked  round.  The  man  who  had  spoken  was  Rich- 
ard Wardour. 

Crayford  instantly  interfered  —  so  vehemently  as  to  astonish  all 
who  knew  him. 

"  No !"  he  said.     "  Not  you,  Richard  !  not  you !" 

"  Why  not  ?"  Wardour  asked,  sternly. 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?"  added  Captain  Helding.  "  Wardour  is  the 
very  man  to  be  useful  on  a  long  march.  He  is  in  perfect  health, 
and  he  is  the  best  shot  among  us.  I  was  on  the  point  of  propos- 
ing him  myself." 

Crayford  failed  to  show  his  customary  respect  for  his  superior 
officer.  He  openly  disputed  the  captain's  conclusion. 

"  Wardour  has  no  right  to  volunteer,"  he  rejoined.  "  It  has  been 
settled,  Captain  Hekling,  that  chance  shall  decide  who  is  to  go  and 
who  is  to  stay." 

"And  chance  has  decided  it,"  cried  Wardour.  "D^  you  think 
\M-  MIT  ^"iii.y  to  f"»st  the  dice  again,  and  give  an  officer  of  the  Sea- 


488  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

mew  a  chance  of  replacing  an  officer  of  the  Wanderer  ?  There  is  a 
vacancy  in  our  party,  not  in  yours ;  and  we  claim  the  right  of  filling 
it  as  we  please.  I  volunteer,  and  my  captain  backs  me.  Whose 
authority  is  to  keep  rne  here  after  that  ?" 

"  Gently,  Wardour,"  said  Captain  Helding.  "  A  man  who  is  in 
the  right  can  afford  to  speak  with  moderation."  He  turned  to 
Crayford.  "  You  must  admit  yourself,"  he  continued,  "  that  War- 
dour  is  right  this  time.  The  missing  man  belongs  to  my  command, 
and  in  common  justice  one  of  my  officers  ought  to  supply  his  place." 

It  was  impossible  to  dispute  the  matter  further.  The  dullest  man 
present  could  see  that  the  captain's  reply  was  unanswerable.  In 
sheer  despair,  Crayford  took  Frank's  arm  and  led  him  aside  a  few 
steps.  The  last  chance  left  of  parting  the  two  men  was  the  chance 
of  appealing  to  Prank. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  began,  "  I  want  to  say  one  friendly  word  to 
you  on  the  subject  of  your  health.  I  have  already,  if  you  remember, 
expressed  my  doubts  whether  you  are  strong  enough  to  make  one 
of  an  exploring  party.  I  feel  those  doubts  more  strongly  than  ever 
at  this  moment.  Will  you  take  the  advice  of  a  friend  who  wishes 
you  well  ?" 

Wardour  had  followed  Crayford.  Wardour  roughly  interposed 
before  Frank  could  reply. 

"  Let  him  alone !" 

Crayford  paid  no  heed  to  the  interruption.  He  was  too  earnestly 
bent  on  withdrawing  Frank  from  the  expedition  to  notice  any  thing 
that  was  said  or  done  by  the  persons  about  him. 

"  Don't,  pray  don't,  risk  hardships  which  you  are  unfit  to  bear !" 
he  went  on,  entreatingly.  "  Your  place  can  be  easily  filled.  Change 
your  mind,  Frank.  Stay  here  with  me." 

Again  Wardour  interfered.  Again  he  called  out,  "Leave  him 
alone!"  more  roughly  than  ever.  Still  deaf  and  blind  to  every 
consideration  but  one,  Crayford  pressed  his  entreaties  on  Frank. 

"You  owned  yourself  just  now  that  you  were  not  well  seasoned 
to  fatigue,"  he  persisted.  "  You  feel  (you  must  feel)  how  weak  that 
last  illness  has  left  you  ?  You  know  (I  am  sure  you  know)  how  unfit 
you  are  to  brave  exposure  to  cold,  and  long  marches  over  the  snow." 

Irritated  beyond  endurance  by  Crayford's  obstinacy ;  seeing,  or 
thinking  he  saw,  signs  of  yielding  in  Frank's  face,  Wardour  so  far 
forgot  himself  as  to  seize  Crayford  by  the  arm  and  attempt  to  drag 
him  away  from  Frank.  Crayford  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Richard,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "  you  are  not  yourself.  I  pity 
you.  Drop  your  hand." 

Wardour  relaxed  his  hold,  with  something  of  the  sullen  submis- 
sion of  a  wild  animal  to  its  keeper.  The  momentary  silence  which 
followed  gave  Frank  an  opportunity  of  speaking  at  last. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  489 

"  I  am  gratefully  sensible,  Crayford,"  he  began,  "  of  the  interest 
which  you  take  in  me — ' 

"  And  you  will  follow  my  advice  ?"  Crayford  interposed,  eagerly. 

"My  mind  is  made  up,  old  friend,"  Frank  answered,  firmly  and 
sadly.  "  Forgive  me  for  disappointing  you.  I  am  appointed  to  the 
expedition.  With  the  expedition  I  go."  He  moved  nearer  to  War- 
dour.  In  his  innocence  of  all  suspicion  he  clapped  Wardour  heart- 
ily on  the  shoulder.  "When  I  feel  the  fatigue,"  said  poor  simple 
Frank,  "  you  will  help  me,  comrade — won't  you  ?  Come  alon#  !" 

Wardour  snatched  his  gun  out  of  the  hands  of  the  sailor  who  was 
carrying  it  for  him.  His  dark  face  became  suddenly  irradiated  with 
a  terrible  joy. 

"  Come  !"  he  cried.  "  Over  the  snow  and  over  the  ice  !  Come ! 
when-  no  human  footsteps  have  ever  trodden,  and  where  no  human 
trace  is  ever  left.'' 

Blindly,  instinctively,  Crayford  made  an  effort  to  part  them.  His 
brother  officers,  standing  near,  pulled  him  back.  They  looked  at 
each  other  anxiously.  The  merciless  cold,  striking  its  victims  in 
various  ways,  had  struck  in  some  instances  at  their  reason  first. 
Kvery  I  tody  loved  Crayford.  Was  he,  too,  going  on  the  dark  way 
that  others  had  taken  before  him  ?  They  forced  him  to  seat  him- 
self on  one  of  the  lockers.  "  Steady,  old  fellow !"  they  said  kindly 
— "  steady  !''  Crayford  yielded,  writhing  inwardly  under  the  sense 
of  his  own  helplessness.  What  in  God's  name  could  he  do  ?  Could 
he  denounce  Wardour  to  Captain  Helding  on  bare  suspicion — with- 
out so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  proof  to  justify  what  he  said  ?  The 
captain  would  decline  to  insult  one  of  his  officers  by  even  mention- 
ing the  monstrous  accusation  to  him.  The  captain  would  conclude, 
as  others  had  already  concluded,  that  Crayford's  mind  was  giving 
way  under  stress  of  cold  and  privation.  No  hope  —  literally,  no 
hope  now,  but  in  the  numbers  of  the  expedition.  Officers  and  men, 
they  all  liked  Frank.  As  long  as  they  could  stir  hand  or  foot,  they 
would  help  him  on  the  way — they  would  see  that  no  harm  came  to  him. 

The  word  of  command  was  given ;  the  door  was  thrown  open ; 
the  hut  emptied  rapidly.  Over  the  merciless  white  snow — under  the 
merciless  Mack  sky — the  exploring  party  began  to  move.  The  sick 
and  helpless  men,  whose  last  hope  of  rescue  centred  in  their  de- 
parting messmates,  cheered  faintly.  Some  few  whose  days  were 
numbered  sobbed  and  cried  like  women.  Frank's  voice  faltered  as 
lit-  turned  back  at  the  door  to  say  his  last  words  to  the  friend  who 
had  been  a  father  to  him. 

"  God  bless  you,  Crayford  1" 

Crayford  broke  away  from  the  officers  near  him ;  and,  hurrying 
forward,  seized  Frank  by  both  hands.  Crayford  held  him  as  if  he 
would  never  let  him  go, 

81 


490  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

"  God  preserve  you,  Frank  !  I  would  give  all  I  have  in  the  world 
to  be  with  you.  Good-bye  !  Good-bye  !" 

Frank  waved  his  hand — dashed  away  the  tears  that  were  gather- 
ing in  his  eyes — and  hurried  out.  Crayford  called  after  him,  the 
last,  the  only  warning  that  he  could  give : 

"  While  you  can  stand,  keep  with  the  main  body,  Frank !" 

Wardour,  waiting  till  the  last — Wardour,  following  Frank  through 
the  snow-drift — stopped,  stepped  back,  and  answered  Crayford  at 
the  door: 

"  While  he  can  stand,  he  keeps  with  Me." 


'J  111-    M;"/.I..N    DEEP.  401 


THIRD  SCENE. -THE  ICEBERG. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ALONE  !  alone  on  the  Frozen  Deep ! 

The  Arctic  sun  is  rising  dimly  in  the  dreary  sky.  The  beams  of 
the  cold  northern  moon,  mingling  strangely  with  the  dawning  light, 
clothe  the  snowy  plains  in  hues  of  livid  gray.  An  ice-field  on  the 
far  horizon  is  moving  slowly  southward  in  the  spectral  light.  Near- 
er, a  stream  of  open  water  rolls  its  slow  black  waves  past  the  edges 
of  the  ice.  Nearer  still,  following  the  drift,  an  iceberg  rears  its 
crags  and  pinnacles  to  the  sky ;  here,  glittering  in  the  moonbeams ; 
there,  looming  dim  and  ghost-like  in  the  ashy  light. 

Midway  on  the  long  sweep' of  the  lower  slope  of  the  iceberg,  what 
objects  rise,  and  break  the  desolate  monotony  of  the  scene  ?  In  this 
awful  solitude,  can  signs  appear  which  tell  of  human  life  ?  Yes  1 
The  black  outline  of  a  boat  just  shows  itself,  hauled  up  on  the  berg. 
In  an  ice-cavern  behind  the  boat  the  last  red  embers  of  a  dying  fire 
flicker  from  time  to  time  over  the  figures  of  two  men.  One  is  seated, 
resting  his  back  against  the  side  of  the  cavern.  The  other  lies  pros- 
trate, with  his  head  on  his  comrade's  knee.  The  first  of  these  men 
is  awake,  and  thinking.  The  second  reclines,  with  his  still  white 
face  turned  up  to  the  sky — sleeping  or  dead.  Days  and  days  since, 
these  two  have  fallen  behind  on  the  march  of  the  expedition  of  re- 
lief. Days  and  days  since,  these  two  have  been  given  up  by  their 
weary  and  failing  companions  as  doomed  and  lost.  He  who  sits 
thinking  is  Richard  Wardour.  He  who  lies  sleeping  or  dead  is 
Frank  Aldersley. 

The  iceberg  drifts  slowly,  over  the  black  water^  through  the  ashy 
light.  Minute  by  minute  the  dying  fire  sinks.  Minute  by  minute 
the  deathly  cold  creeps  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lost  men. 

Richard  Wardour  rouses  himself  from  his  thoughts — looks  at  the 
still  white  face  beneath  him — and  places  his  hand  on  Frank's  heart. 
It  still  beats  feebly.  Give  him  his  share  of  the  food  and  fuel  still 
stored  in  the  boat,  and  Frank  may  live  through  it.  Leave  him 
neglected  where  he  lies,  and  his  death  is  a  question  of  hours — per- 
haps minutes;  who  knows? 

Richard  Wardour  lifts  the  sleeper's  head  and  rests  it  against  the 
cavern  side.  He  goes  to  the  boat,  and  returns  with  a  billet  of  wood. 


492  THE   FROZEN  DEEP. 

He  stoops  to  place  the  wood  on  the  fire  —  and  stops.  Frank  is 
dreaming,  and  murmuring  in  his  dream.  A  woman's  name  passes 
his  lips.  Frank  is  in  England  again — at  the  ball — whispering  to 
Clara  the  confession  of  his  love. 

Over  Richard  Wardour's  face  there  passes  the  shadow  of  a  dead- 
ly thought.  He  rises  from  the  fire ;  he  takes  the  wood  back  to  the 
boat.  His  iron  strength  is  shaken,  but  it  still  holds  out.  They  are 
drifting  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  open  sea.  He  can  launch  the  boat 
without  help ;  he  can  take  the  food  and  the  fuel  with  him.  The 
sleeper  on  the  iceberg  is  the  man  who  has  robbed  him  of  Clara — 
who  has  wrecked  the  hope  and  the  happiness  of  his  life.  Leave  the 
man  in  his  sleep,  and  let  him  die ! 

So  the  tempter  whispers.  Richard  Wardour  tries  his  strength  on 
the  boat.  It  moves :  he  has  got  it  under  control.  He  stops,  and 
looks  round.  Beyond  him  is  the  open  sea.  Beneath  him  is  the 
man  who  has  robbed  him  of  Clara.  The  shadow  of  the  deadly 
thought  grows  and  darkens  over  his  face.  He  waits  with  his  hands 
on  the  boat — waits  and  thinks. 

The  iceberg  drifts  slowly  —  over  the  black  water;  through  the 
ashy  light.  Minute  by  minute,  the  dying  tire  sinks.  Minute  by 
minute,  the  deathly  cold  creeps  nearer  to  the  sleeping  man.  And 
still  Richard  Wardour  waits — waits  and  thinks. 


'I  111:  FROZEN  DEEP.  493 


FOURTH  SCENE. -THE  GARDEN. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  spring  has  come.  The  air  of  the  April  night  just  lifts  the 
leaves  of  the  sleeping  flowers.  The  moon  is  queen  in  the  cloudless 
and  starless  sky.  The  stillness  of  the  midnight  hour  is  abroad,  over 
land  and  over  sea. 

In  a  villa  on  tin-  westward  shore  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  glass 
doors  which  lead  from  the  drawing  room  to  the  garden  are  yet  open. 
The  shaded  lamp  yet  burns  on  the  table.  A  lady  sits  by  the  lamp, 
reading.  From  time  to  time  she  looks  out  into  the  garden,  and  sees 
the  white-robed  figure  of  a  young  girl  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  in 
the  soft  brightness  of  the  moonlight  on  the  lawn.  Sorrow  and  sus- 
pense have  set  their  murk  on  the  lady.  Not  rivals  only,  but  friends 
who  formerly  admired  her,  agree  now  that  she  looks  worn  and  aged. 
The  more  merciful  judgment  of  others  remarks,  with  equal  truth, 
that  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  simple  grace  and  grandeur  of  movement 
have  lost  but  little  of  their  olden  charms.  The  truth  lies,  as  usual, 
I  pet  ween  the  two  extremes.  In  spite  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  Mrs. 
Crayford  is  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Cray  ford  still. 

The  delicious  silence  of  the  hour  is  softly  disturbed  by  the  voice 
of  the  younger  lady  in  the  garden. 

"  Go  to  the  piano,  Lucy.  It  is  a  night  for  music.  Play  something 
that  is  worthy  of  the  night." 

Mrs.  Crayford  looks  round  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece. 

"  My  dear  Clara,  it  is  past  twelve !  Remember  what  the  doctor 
told  you.  You  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  an  hour  ago." 

"  Half  an  hour,  Lucy — give  me  half  an  hour  more !  Look  at  the 
moonlight  on  the  sea.  Is  it  possible  to  go  to  bed  on  such  a  night 
as  tliis  '.  Play  something.  Lucy — something  spiritual  and  divine." 

Kurnestly  pleading  with  her  friend,  Clara  advances  toward  the 
window.  She  too  lias  sum-red  under  the  wasting  influences  of  sus- 
pense. Her  t'aee  has  lost  its  youthful  freshness;  no  delicate  flush  of 
color  rises  on  it  when  she  speaks.  The  soft  gray  eyes  which  won 
Frank's  heart  in  the  by-gone  time  are  sadly  altered  now.  In  repose, 
they  have  a  dimmed  and  wearied  look.  In  action,  they  are  wild  and 
restl'-ss,  like  eyes  suddenly  wakened  from  startling  dreams.  Robed 
in  white — her  soft  brown  hair  hanging  loosely  over  hec  shoulders — 


494  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

there  is  something  weird  and  ghost-like  in  the  girl,  as  she  moves 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  window  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon — 
pleading  for  music  that  shall  be  worthy  of  the  mystery  and  the  beau- 
ty of  the  night. 

"  Will  you  come  in  here  if  I  play  to  you  ?"  Mrs.  Crayford  asks. 
"  It  is  a  risk,  my  love,  to  be  out  so  long  in  the  night  air." 

"  No  !  no  !  I  like  it.  Play— while  I  am  out  here  looking  at  the 
sea.  It  quiets  me ;  it  comforts  me ;  it  does  me  good." 

She  glides  back,  ghost-like,  over  the  lawn.  Mrs.  Crayford  rises, 
and  puts  down  the  volume  that  she  has  been  reading.  It  is  a  record 
of  explorations  in  the  Arctic  seas.  The  time  has  gone  by  when  the 
two  lonely  women  could  take  an  interest  in  subjects  not  connected 
with  their  own  anxieties.  Now,  when  hope  is  fast  failing  them — 
now,  when  their  last  news  of  the  Wanderer  and  the  Sea-mew  is  news 
that  is  more  than  two  years  old — they  can  read  of  nothing,  they  can 
think  of  nothing,  but  dangers  and  discoveries,  losses  and  rescues  in 
the  terrible  Polar  seas. 

Unwillingly,  Mrs.  Crayford  puts  her  book  aside,  and  opens  the 
piano — Mozart's  "Air  in  A,  with  Variations,"  lies  open  on  the  instru- 
ment. One  after  another  she  plays  the  lovely  melodies,  so  simply, 
so  purely  beautiful,  of  that  unpretending  and  unrivaled  work.  At 
the  close  of  the  ninth  Variation  (Clara's  favorite),  she  pauses,  and 
turns  toward  the  garden. 

"  Shall  I  stop  there  ?"  she  asks. 

There  is  no  answer.  Has  Clara  wandered  away  out  of  hearing  of 
the  music  that  she  loves — the  music  that  harmonizes  so  subtly  with 
the  tender  beauty  of  the  night  ?  Mrs.  Crayford  rises  and  advances 
to  the  window. 

No !  there  is  the  white  figure  standing  alone  on  the  slope  of  the 
lawn — the  head  turned  away  from  the  house ;  the  face  looking  out 
over  the  calm  sea,  whose  gently  rippling  waters  end  in  the  dim  line 
on  the  horizon  which  is  the  line  of  the  Hampshire  coast. 

Mrs.  Crayford  advances  as  far  as  the  path  before  the  window,  and 
calls  to  her. 

"Clara!" 

Again  there  is  no  answer.  The  white  figure  still  stands  immova- 
bly in  its  place. 

With  signs  of  distress  in  her  face,  but  with  no  appearance  of 
alarm,  Mrs.  Crayford  returns  to  the  room.  Her  own  sad  experience 
tells  her  what  has  happened.  She  summons  the  servants,  and  directs 
them  to  wait  in  the  drawing-room  until  she  calls  to  them.  This 
done,  she  returns  to  the  garden,  and  approaches  the  mysterious  fig- 
ure on  the  lawn. 

Dead  to  the  outer  world,  as  if  she  lay  already  in  her  grave — insen- 
sible to  touch,  insensible  to  sound,  motionless  as  stone,  cold  as  stone 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  495 

— Clara  stands  on  the  moonlit  lawn,  facing  the  seaward  view.  Sire. 
Crayfonl  waits  at  her  side,  patiently  watching  for  the  change  which 
>hc  kno\\<  is  to  come.  "  C:it;tlr|>sy,"  as  some  call  it — "hysteria,"  as 
others  say — this  alone  is  certain,  the  same  interval  always  passes; 
the  samr  change  always  appears. 

It  ionics  now.  Not  a  change  in  her  eyes;  they  still  remain  wide 
(i pen,  fixed  and  glassy.  The  first  movement  is  a  movement  of  her 
hands.  They  rise  slowly  from  her  side,  and  waver  in  the  air  like  the 
hands  of  a  person  groping  in  the  dark.  Another  interval,  and  the 
movement  spreads  to  her  lips :  they  part  and  tremble.  A  few  min- 
utes more,  and  words  begin  to  drop,  one  by  one,  from  those  parted 
lips— words  spoken  in  a  lost,  vacant  tone,  as  if  she  is  talking  in  her 

sleep. 

Mrs.  Crayford  looks  back  at  the  house.  Sad  experience  makes 
her  suspicious  of  the  servants'  curiosity.  Sad  experience  has  long 
since  warned  her  that  the  servants  are  not  to  be  trusted  within  hear- 
ing of  the  wild  words  which  Clara  speaks  in  the  trance.  Has  any 
one  of  them  ventured  into  the  garden  ?  No.  They  are  out  of  hear- 
ing at  the  window,  waiting  for  the  signal  which  tella  them  that  their 
help  is  needed. 

Turning  toward  Clara  once  more,  Mrs.  Crayford  hears  the  vacant- 
ly uttered  words,  falling  faster  and  faster  from  her  lips. 

"Frank!  Frank!  Frank!  Don't  drop  behind  —  don't  trust 
Richard  Wardour.  While  you  can  stand,  keep  with  the  other  men, 
Frank  '." 

(The  farewell  warning  of  Crayford  in  the  solitudes  of  the  Frozen 
Deep,  repeated  by  Clara  in  the  garden  of  her  English  home !) 

A  moment  of  silence  follows  ;  and,  in  that  moment,  the  vision  has 
changed.  She  sees  him  on  the  iceberg  now,  at  the  mercy  of  the 
bitterest  enemy  he  has  on  earth.  She  sees  him  drifting — over  the 
black  water,  through  the  ashy  light. 

••  Wake,  Frank !  wake  and  defend  yourself!  Richard  Wardour 
knows  that  I  love  you  —  Richard  Wardour's  vengeance  will  take 
your  life  !  Wake,  Frank — wake  !  You  are  drifting  to  your  death  !'' 
A  low  groan  of  horror  burst  from  her,  sinister  and  terrible  to  hear. 
"Drifting!  drifting !"  she  whispers  to  herself — "drifting  to  his 
deatli  !" 

Her  glassy  eyes  suddenly  soften  —  then  close.  A  long  shudder 
runs  through  her.  A  faint  flush  shows  itself  on  the  deadly  pallor  of 
her  face,  and  fades  again.  Her  limbs  fail  her.  She  sinks  into  Mrs. 
Crayford's  anus. 

The  servants,  answering  the  call  for  help,  carry  her  into  the 
house.  They  lay  her  insensible  mi  her  bed.  After  half  an  hour  or 
more,  her  eyes  open  again — this  time  with  the  light  of  life  in  them 
— open,  and  rest  languidly  on  the  friend  sitting  by  the  bedside. 


496  THE    FKOZEN   DEEP. 

"  I  have  had  a  dreadful  dream,"  she  murmurs,  faintly.  "  Am  I  ill, 
Lucy  ?  I  feel  so  weak." 

Even  as  she  says  the  words,  sleep,  gentle,  natural  sleep,  takes  her 
suddenly,  as  it  takes  young  children  weary  with  their  play.  Though 
it  is  all  over  now,  though  no  further  watching  is  required,  Mrs. 
Crayford  still  keeps  her  place  by  the  bedside,  too  anxious  and  too 
wakeful  to  retire  to  her  own  room. 

On  other  occasions,  she  is  accustomed  to  dismiss  from  her  mind 
the  words  which  drop  from  Clara  in  the  trance.  This  time  the  ef- 
fort to  dismiss  them  is  beyond  her  power.  The  words  haunt  her. 
Vainly  she  recalls  to  memory  all  that  the  doctors  have  said  to  her, 
in  speaking  of  Clara  in  the  state  of  trance.  "  What  she  vaguely 
dreads  for  the  lost  man  whom  she  loves  is  mingled  in  her  mind 
with  what  she  is  constantly  reading,  of  trials,  dangers,  and  escapes 
in  the  Arctic  seas.  The  most  startling  things  that  she  may  say  or 
do  are  all  attributable  to  this  cause,  and  may  all  be  explained  in  this 
way."  So  the  doctors  have  spoken ;  and,  thus  far,  Mrs.  Crayford 
has  shared  their  view.  It  is  only  to-night  that  the  girl's  words  ring 
in  her  ear,  with  a  strange  prophetic  sound  in  them.  It  is  only  to- 
night that  she  asks  herself:  "  Is  Clara  present,  in  the  spirit,  with  our 
loved  and  lost  ones  in  the  lonely  North?  Can  mortal  vision  see  the 
dead  and  living  in  the  solitudes  of  the  Frozen  Deep  ?" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  night  had  passed. 

Far  and  near  the  garden  view  looked  its  gayest  and  brightest  in 
the  light  of  the  noonday  sun.  The  cheering  sounds  wyhich  tell  of 
life  and  action  were  audible  all  round  the  villa.  From  the  garden 
of  the  nearest  house  rose  the  voices  of  children  at  play.  Along  the 
road  at  the  back  sounded  the  roll  of  wheels,  as  carts  and  carriages 
passed  at  intervals.  Out  on  the  blue  sea,  the  distant  splash  of  the 
paddles,  the  distant  thump  of  the  engines,  told  from  time  to  time  of 
the  passage  of  steamers,  entering  or  leaving  the  strait  between  the 
island  and  the  main-land.  In  the  trees,  the  birds  sang  gayly  among 
the  rustling  leaves.  In  the  house,  the  women-servants  were  laugh- 
ing over  some  jest  or  story  that  cheered  them  at  their  work.  It 
was  a  lively  and  pleasant  time — a  bright,  enjoyable  day. 

The  two  ladies  were  out  together ;  resting  on  a  garden  seat,  after 
a  walk  round  the  grounds. 

They  exchanged  a  few  trivial  words  relating  to  the  beauty  of  the 
day,  and  then  said  no  more.  Possessing  the  same  consciousness  of 
what  she  had  seen  in  the  Trance,  which  persons  in  general  possess 


NIK    FROZEN   DEEP.  497 

of  what  they  have  seen  in  a  dream — believing  in  the  vision  as  a  su- 
pernatural revelation  —  Clara's  worst  forebodings  were  now,  to  her 
mind,  realized  as  truths.  Her  last  faint  hope  of  ever  seeing  Frank 
again  was  now  at  an  end.  Intimate  experience  of  her  told  Mrs. 
Crawford  what  was  passing  in  Clara's  mind,  and  warned  her  that  the 
attempt  to  reason  and  remon-trate  would  be  little  better  than  a  vol- 
untary waste  of  words  and  time.  The  disposition  which  she  had 
In-r-elf  felt  on  the  previous  night,  to  attach  a  superstitious  impor- 
tanee  to  the  words  that  Clara  had  spoken  in  the  Trance,  had  van- 
ished with  the  return  of  the  morning.  Rest  and  reflection  had 
quieted  her  mind,  and  had  restored  the  composing  influence  of  her 
sober  sen>e.  Sympathizing  with  Clara  in  all  besides,  she  had  no 
sympathy,  a>  they  sat  together  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  with  Clara's 
gloomy  despair  of  the  future.  She,  who  could  still  hope,  had  noth- 
ing to  say  to  the  sad  eompanion  who  had  done  with  hope.  So  the 
i|niet  minutes  succeeded  each  other,  and  the  two  friends  sat  side  by 
side  in  silence. 

An  hour  passed,  and  the  gate-bell  of  the  villa  rang. 

They  both  started — they  both  knew  the  ring.  It  was  the  hour 
when  the  postman  brought  their  newspapers  from  London.  In  past 
days,  what  hundreds  oil  hundreds  of  times  they  had  torn  off  the 
cover  which  inclosed  the  newspaper,  and  looked  at  the  same  col- 
umn with  the  same  weary  mingling  of  hope  and  despair !  There 
to-day — as  it  was  yesterday;  as  it  would  be,  if  they  lived,  to-morrow 

there  was  the  servant  with  Lucy's  newspaper  and  Clara's  newspa- 
per in  his  hand  !  Would  both  of  them  do  again  to-day  what  both 
had  done  so  often  in  the  days  that  were  gone  ? 

No !  Mrs.  Crayford  removed  the  cover  from  her  newspaper  as 
usual.  Clara  laid  her  newspaper  aside,  unopened,  on  the  garden  seat. 

In  silence,  Mrs.  Crayford  looked,  where  she  always  looked,  at  the 
column  devoted  to  the  Latest  Intelligence  from  foreign  parts.  The 
in>tant  tier  eye  fell  on  the  page,  she  started  with  a  loud  cry  of  joy. 
The  newspaper  fell  from  her  trembling  hand.  She  caught  Clara  in 
her  arms.  "  Oh,  my  darling !  my  darling !  news  of  them  at  last." 

Without  answering,  without  the  slightest  change  in  look  or  man- 
ner. ( 'lara  took  the  newspaper  from  the  ground,  and  read  the  top  line 
in  the  column,  printed  in  capital  letters: 

THE  ARCTIC  EXPEDITION. 

She  waited,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Crayford. 

••('an  you  bear  to  hear  it, Lucy,"  she  asked, "if  I  read  it  aloud?" 

Mr-.  Crayford  was  too  agitated  to  answer  in  words.  She  signed 
impatiently  to  Clara  to  go  on. 

Clara  read  the  news  which  followed  the  heading  in  capital  letters. 
Thus  it  ran : 

"  The  following  intelligence,  from  St.  Johns,  Newfoundland,  has 

21* 


498  THE    FROZEN    DEEP. 

reached  us  for  publication.  The  whaling-vessel  Blythewood  is  re- 
ported to  have  met  with  the  surviving  officers  and  men  of  the  Expe- 
dition in  Davis  Strait.  Many  are  stated  to  be  dead,  and  some  are 
supposed  to  be  missing.  The  list  of  the  saved,  as  collected  by  the 
people  of  the  whaler,  is  not  vouched  for  as  being  absolutely  correct, 
the  circumstances  having  been  adverse  to  investigation.  The  vessel 
was  pressed  for  time ;  and  the  members  of  the  Expedition,  all  more 
or  less  suifering  from  exhaustion,  were  not  in  a  position  to  give  the 
necessary  assistance  to  inquiry.  Further  particulars  may  be  looked 
for  by  the  next  mail." 

The  list  of  the  survivors  followed,  beginning  with  the  officers  in 
the  order  of  their  rank.  They  both  read  the  list  together.  The 
first  name  was  Captain  Helding;  the  second  was  Lieutenant  Cray- 
ford. 

There  the  wife's  joy  overpowered  her.  After  a  pause,  she  put  her 
arm  around  Clara's  waist,  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  Oh,  my  love  !"  she  murmured,  "  are  you  as  happy  as  I  am  ?  Is 
Frank's  name  there  too  ?  The  tears  are  in  my  eyes.  Read  for  me 
— I  can't  read  for  myself." 

The  answer  came,  in  still,  sad  tones : 

"  I  have  read  as  far  as  your  husband's  name.  I  have  no  need  to 
read  farther." 

Mrs.  Crayford  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes — steadied  herself— 
and  looked  at  the  newspaper. 

On  the  list  of  the  survivors,  the  search  was  vain.  Frank's  name 
was  not  among  them.  On  a  second  list,  headed  "  Dead  or  Missing," 
the  first  two  names  that  appeared  were : 

FRANCIS  ALDEBSLEY.    - 

RICHARD  W  ARDOUR. 

In  speechless  distress  and  dismay,  Mrs.  Crayford  looked  at  Clara. 
Had  she  force  enough  in  her  feeble  health  to  sustain  the  shock  that 
had  fallen  on  her  ?  Yes  !  she  bore  it  with  a  strange  unnatural  res- 
ignation— she  looked,  she  spoke,  with  the  sad  self-possession  of 
despair. 

"  I  was  prepared  for  it,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  them  in  the  spirit  last 
night.  Richard  Wardour  has  discovered  the  truth  ;  and  Frank  has 
paid  the  penalty  with  his  life — and  I,  I  alone,  am  to  blame."  She 
shuddered,  and  put  her  hand  on  her  heart.  "  We  shall  not  be  long 
parted,  Lucy.  I  shall  go  to  him.  He  will  not  return  to  me." 

Those  words  were  spoken  with  a  calm  certainty  of  conviction  that 
was  terrible  to  hear.  "  I  have  no  more  to  say,"  she  added,  after  a 
moment,  and  rose  to  return  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Crayford  caught 
her  by  the  hand,  and  forced  her  to  take  her  seat  again. 

"  Don't  look  at  me,  don't  speak  to  me,  in  that  horrible  manner !" 
she  exclaimed.  "  Clara !  it  is  unworthy  of  a  reasonable  being,  it  is 


THE    FKOZEN    DEKF.  499 

doubting  the  mercy  of  God,  to  say  what  you  have  just  said.  Look 
at  the  newspaper  again.  See  !  They  tell  you  plainly  that  their  in- 
formal i<m  is  not  to  be  depended  on — they  warn  you  to  wait  for  fur- 
ther particulars.  The  very  words  at  the  top  of  the  list  show  how 
little  they  know  of  the  truth.  'Dead  or  Missing!1  On  their  own 
showing,  it  is  quite  as  likely  that  Frank  i$  missing  as  that  Frank  is 
dead.  For  all  you  know,  the  next  mail  may  bring  a  letter  from 
him.  Are  you  listening  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Can  you  deny  what  I  say  ?" 

"No." 

" '  Yes !'  'No !'  Is  that  the  way  to  answer  me  when  I  am  so  dis- 
tressed and  so  anxious  about  you  ?" 

"I  am  sorry  I  spoke  as  I  did,  Lucy.  We  look  at  some  subjects  in 
very  different  ways.  I  don't  dispute,  dear,  that  yours  is  the  reason- 
able view.'' 

"  You  don't  dispute  ?"  retorted  Mrs.  Crayford,  warmly.  "  No !  you 
do  what  is  worse — you  believe  in  your  own  opinion ;  you  persist  in 
your  own  conclusion — with  the  newspaper  before  you  !  Do  you,  or 
do  you  not.  believe  the  newspaper  ?" 

"  I  believe  in  what  I  saw  last  night." 

"  In  what  you  saw  last  night !  You,  an  educated  woman,  a  clever 
woman,  believing  in  a  vision  of  your  own  fancy — a  mere  dream  !  I 
wonder  you  arc  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it!" 

"  Call  it  a  dream  if  you  like,  Lucy.  I  have  had  other  dreams  at 
other  times — and  I  have  known  them  to  be  fulfilled." 

•  Y<  >  !"  said  Mrs.  Crayford.  "  For  once  in  a  way  they  may  have 
been  fulfilled,  by  chance — and  you  notice  it,  and  remember  it,  and 
pin  your  faith  on  it.  Come,  Clara,  be  honest ! — What  about  the  oc- 
casions when  the  chance  has  been  against  you,  and  your  dreams 
have  not  been  fulfilled  ?  You  superstitious  people  are  all  alike.  You 
conveniently  forget  when  your  dreams  and  your  presentiments  prove 
false.  For  my  sake,  dear,  if  not  for  your  own,"  she  continued,  in 
gentler  and  tenderer  tones,  "  try  to  be  more  reasonable  and  more 
hopeful.  Don't  lose  your  trust  in  the  future,  and  your  trust  in  God. 
God,  who  has  saved  my  husband,  can  save  Frank.  While  there  is 
doubt,  there  is  hope.  Don't  imbitter  my  happiness,  Clara !  Try 
to  think  as  I  think — if  it  is  only  to  show  that  you  love  me." 

She  put  her  arm  round  the  girl's  neck,  and  kissed  her.  Clam  re- 
turned the  kiss ;  Clara  answered,  sadly  and  submissively, 

"I  do  love  you,  Lucy.     I  trill  try." 

Having  answered  in  those  terms,  she  sighed  to  herself,  and  said  no 
more.  It  would  have  been  plain,  only  too  plain,  to  far  less  observant 
eyes  than  Mrs.  Crayford's  that  no  salutary  impression  had  been  pro- 
duced on  her.  She  had  ceased  to  defend  her  own  way  of  thinking, 


500  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

she  spoke  of  it  no  more — but  there  was  the  terrible  conviction  of 
Frank's  death  at  Wardour's  hands  rooted  as  firmly  as  ever  in  her 
mind !  Discouraged  and  distressed,  Mrs.  Crayford  left  her,  and 
walked  back  toward  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AT  the  drawing-room  window  of  the  villa  there  appeared  a  polite 
little  man,  with  bright  intelligent  eyes,  and  cheerful  sociable  man- 
ners. Neatly  dressed  in  professional  black,  he  stood,  self-proclaim- 
ed, a  prosperous  country  doctor — successful  and  popular  in  a  wide 
circle  of  patients  and  friends.  As  Mrs.  Crayford  approached  him, 
he  stepped  out  briskly  to  meet  her  on  the  lawn,  with  both  hands 
extended  in  courteous  and  cordial  greeting. 

"  My  dear  madam,  accept  my  heartfelt  congratulations !"  cried  the 
doctor.  "I  have  seen  the  good  news  in  the  paper;  and  I  could 
hardly  feel  more  rejoiced  than  I  do  now  if  I  had  the  honor  of  know- 
ing Lieutenant  Crayford  personally.  We  mean  to  celebrate  the  oc- 
casion at  home.  I  said  to  my  wife  before  I  came  out, '  A  bottle  of 
the  old  Maderia  at  dinner  to-day,  mind ! — to  drink  the  lieutenant's 
health ;  God  bless  him  !'  And  how  is  our  interesting  patient  ?  The 
news  is  not  altogether  what  we  could  wish,  so  far  as  she  is  concern- 
ed. I  felt  a  little  anxious,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  about  the  effect  of 
it ;  and  I  have  paid  my  visit  to-day  before  my  usual  time.  Not  that 
I  take  a  gloomy  view  of  the  news  myself.  No  !  There  is  clearly  a 
doubt  about  the  correctness  of  the  information,  so  far  as  Mr.  Alders- 
ley  is  concerned — and  that  is  a  point,  a  great  point  in  Mr.  Alders- 
ley's  favor.  I  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  as  the  lawyers 
say.  Does  Miss  Burnham  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  too  ?  I 
hardly  dare  hope  it,  I  confess." 

"  Miss  Burnham  has  grieved  and  alarmed  me,"  Mrs.  Crayford  an- 
swered. "  I  was  just  thinking  of  sending  for  you,  when  we  met 
here." 

With  those  introductory  words,  she  told  the  doctor  exactly  what 
had  happened ;  repeating  not  only  the  conversation  of  that  morning 
between  Clara  and  herself,  but  also  the  words  which  had  fallen  from 
Clara,  in  the  trance  of  the  past  night. 

The  doctor  listened  attentively.  Little  by  little  its  easy  smiling 
composure  vanished  from  his  face,  as  Mrs.  Crayford  went  on,  and  left 
him  completely  transformed  into  a  grave  and  thoughtful  man. 

"  Let  us  go  and  look  at  her,"  he  said. 

He  seated  himself  by  Clara's  side,  and  carefully  studied  her  face, 
with  his  hand  on  her  pulse.  There  was  no  sympathy  here  between 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  501 

the  dreamy  mystical  temperament  of  the  patient  and  the  downright 
practical  character  of  the  doctor.  Clara  secretly  disliked  her  medical 
attendant.  She  submitted  impatiently  to  the  close  investigation  of 
which  lie  made  her  the  object.  lie  questioned  her — and  she  answer- 
ed irritably.  Advancing  a  step  farther  (the  doctor  was  not  easily 
discouraged)  he  adverted  to  the  news  of  the  Expedition,  and  took 
up  the  tone  of  remonstrance  which  had  been  already  adopted  by 
Mrs.  Crayford.  Clara  declined  to  discuss  the  question.  She  rose 
with  formal  politeness,  and  requested  permission  to  return  to  the 
house.  The  doctor  attempted  no  further  resistance.  "By  all  means, 
Miss  Burnham,"  he  answered,  resignedly — having  first  cast  a  look  at 
Mrs.  Crayford  which  said  plainly,  "  Stay  here  with  me."  Clara  bow- 
ed her  acknowledgments  in  cold  silence,  and  left  them  together. 
The  doctor's  bright  eyes  followed  the  girl's  wasted,  yet  still  graceful 
figure  as  it  slowly  receded  from  view,  with  an  expression  of  grave 
anxiety  which  Mrs.  Crayford  noticed  with  grave  misgiving  on  her 
side.  He  said  nothing,  until  Clara  had  disappeared  under  the  ve- 
randa which  ran  round  the  garden-side  of  the  house'. 

"  I  think  you  told  ine,nhe  began,  u  that  Miss  Burnham  has  neither 
father  nor  mother  living  ?" 

"  Yes.     Miss  Burnham  is  an  orphan." 

••  1  las  she  any  near  relatives  ?" 

"  No.  You  may  speak  to  me  as  her  guardian  and  her  friend. 
Are  you  alarmed  about  her?" 

"  I  am  seriously  alarmed.  It  is  only  two  days  since  I  called  here 
la-t.  and  I  see  a  marked  change  in  her  for  the  worse  —  physic- 
ally and  morally,  a  change  for  the  worse.  Don't  needlessly  alarm 
yourself!  The  case  is  not,  I  trust,  entirely  beyond  the  reach 
of  remedy.  The  great  hope  for  us  is  the  hope  that  Mr.  Alders- 
ley  may  still  be  living.  In  that  event,  I  should  feel  no  misgiv- 
ings about  the  future.  Her  marriage  would  make  a  healthy  and  a 
happy  woman  of  her.  But  as  tilings  are-,  I  own  I  dread  that  settled 
conviction  in  her  mind  that  Mr.  Aldersley  is  dead,  and  that  her  own 
death  is  soon  to  follow.  In  her  present  state  of  health  this  idea 
(haunting  her  as  it  certainly  will  night  and  day)  will  have  its  in- 
fluence on  her  body  as  well  as  on  her  mind.  Unless  we  can  check 
the  mischief,  her  last  reserves  of  strength  will  give  way.  If  you 
wish  for  other  advice,  by  all  means  send  for  it.  You  have  my 
opinion." 

"  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  your  opinion,"  Mrs.  Crayford  replied. 
"  For  God's  sake,  tell  me,  what  can  we  do  ?" 

"  We  can  try  a  complete  change,"  said  the  doctor.  "  We  can  re- 
move her  at  once  from  this  place." 

"  She  will  refuse  to  leave  it,"  Mrs.  Crayford  rejoined.  "  I  have 
more  than  once  proposed  a  change  to  her — and  she  always  says  No." 


502  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

The  doctor  paused  for  a  moment,  like  a  man  collecting  his 
thoughts. 

"  I  heard  something  on  my  way  here,"  he  proceeded,  "  which  sug- 
gests to  my  mind  a  method  of  meeting  the  difficulty  that  you  have 
just  mentioned.  Unless  I  am  entirely  mistaken,  Miss  Burnham  will 
not  say  No  to  the  change  that  I  have  in  view  for  her." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Crayford,  eagerly. 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  a  question,  on  my  part,  before  I  reply," 
said  the  doctor.  "  Are  you  fortunate  enough  to  possess  any  interest 
at  the  Admiralty  ?" 

"  Certainly.  My  father  is  in  the  Secretary's  office ;  and  two  of 
the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty  are  friends  of  his." 

"  Excellent !  Now  I  can  speak  out  plainly  with  little  fear  of  dis- 
appointing you.  After  what  I  have  said,  you  will  agree  with  me, 
that  the  only  change  in  Miss  Burnham's  life  which  will  be  of  any 
use  to  her  is  a  change  that  will  alter  the  present  tone  of  her  mind 
on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Aldersley.  Place  her  in  a  position  to  discover 
— not  by  reference  to  her  own  distempered  fancies  and  visions,  but 
by  reference  to  actual  evidence  and  actual  fact — whether  Mr.  Al- 
dersley is,  or  is  not,  a  living  man ;  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  the 
hysterical  delusions  which  now  threaten  to  fatally  undermine  her 
health.  Even  taking  matters  at  their  worst — even  assuming  that 
Mr.  Aldersley  has  died  in  the  Arctic  seas — it  will  be  less  injurious 
to  her  to  discover  this  positively,  than  to  leave  her  mind  to  feed  on 
its  own  morbid  superstitions  and  speculations,  for  weeks  and  weeks 
together,  while  the  next  news  from  the  Expedition  is  on  its  way  to 
England.  In  one  word,  I  want  you  to  be  in  a  position,  before  the 
week  is  out,  to  put  Miss  Burnham's  present  conviction  to  a  practical 
test.  Suppose  you  could  say  to  her,  'We  differ,  my  dear,  about 
Mr.  Francis  Aldersley.  You  declare,  without  the  shadow  of  a  reason 
for  it,  that  he  is  certainly  dead,  and,  worse  still,  that  he  has  died  by 
the  act  of  one  of  his  brother  officers.  I  assert,  on  the  authority  of 
the  newspaper,  that  nothing  of  the  sort  has  happened,  and  that  the 
chances  are  all  in  favor  of  his  being  still  a  living  man.  What  do 
you  say  to  crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  deciding  which  of  us  is  right—- 
you or  I  ?'  Do  you  think  Miss  Burnham  will  say  No  to  that,  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford  ?  If  I  know  any  thing  of  human  nature,  she  will  seize  the  oppor- 
tunity as  a  means  of  converting  you  to  a  belief  in  the  Second  Sight." 

"  Good  heavens,  doctor !  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  we  are  to 
go  to  sea  and  meet  the  Arctic  Expedition  on  its  way  home?" 

"Admirably  guessed,  Mrs.  Crayford!  That  is  exactly  what  I 
mean." 

"  But  how  is  it  to  be  done  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  immediately.  I  mentioned — didn't  I?— that  I 
had  heard  something  on  my  road  to  this  house." 


T11K    FUUZEN    DEEP.  503 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  ruet  an  old  friend  at  my  own  gate,  who  walked  with  me 
a  part  of  the  way  here.  Last  night  my  friend  dined  with  the  admi- 
ral at  Portsmouth.  Among  the  guests  there  was  a  meml>er  of  the 
Ministry  who  had  brought  the  news  about  the  Expedition  with  him 
from  London.  This  gentleman  told  the  company  there  was  very 
little  doubt  that  the  Admiralty  would  immediately  send  out  a  steam- 
Yi->scl,  to  meet  the  rescued  men  on  the  shores  of  America,  and  bring 
them  home.  Wait  a  little,  Mrs.  Crayford !  Nobody  knows,  as  yet, 
under  what  rules  and  regulations  the  vessel  will  sail.  Under  some- 
what similar  circumstances,  privileged  people  hace  been  received  as 
passengers,  or  rather  as  guests,  in  her  majesty's  ships — and  what  has 
been  conceded  on  former  occasions  may,  by  bare  possibility,  be  con- 
crdi'd  now.  I  can  say  no  more.  If  you  are  not  afraid  of  the  voy- 
age for  yourself,  I  am  not  afraid  of  it  (nay,  I  am  all  in  favor  of  it  on 
medical  grounds)  for  my  patient.  What  do  you  say  ?  Will  you 
write  to  your  father,  and  ask  him  to  try  what  his  interest  will  do 
with  his  friends  at  the  Admiralty  ?" 

Mrs.  Crayford  rose  excitedly  to  her  feet. 

"  Write !"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  will  do  better  than  write.  The 
journey  to  London  is  no  great  matter — and  my  housekeeper  here  is 
to  be  trusted  to  take  care  of  Clara  in  my  absence.  I  will  see  my 
father  to-night !  He  shall  make  good  use  of  his  interest  at  the  Ad- 
miralty— you  may  rely  on  that.  Oh,  my  dear  doctor,  what  a  pros- 
pect it  is  !  My  husband !  Clara !  What  a  discovery  you  have  made 
— what  a  treasure  you  are  !  How  can  I  thank  you  ?" 

"Compose  yourself,  my  dear  madam.  Don't  make  too  sure  of 
success.  We  may  consider  Miss  Burnham's  objections  as  disposed 
of  beforehand.  But  suppose  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty  say  No  ?" 

'•  In  that  case,  I  shall  be  in  London,  doctor ;  and  I  shall  go  to 
them  myself.  Lords  are  only  men ;  and  men  are  not  in  the  habit 
of  saying  No  to  me" 

So  they  parted. 

In  a  week  from  that  day,  her  majesty's  ship  Amazon  sailed  for 
North  America.  Certain  privileged  persons,  specially  interested  in 
the  Arctic  voyagers,  were  permitted  to  occupy  the  empty  state-rooms 
on  board.  On  the  list  of  these  favored  guests  of  the  ship  were  the 
names  of  two  ladies — Mrs.  Crayford  and  Miss  Burnham. 


504  THE   FROZEN   DEEP. 


FIFTH  SCENE.-THE  BOAT-HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ONCE  more  the  open  sea  —  the  sea  whose  waters  break  on  the 
shores  of  Newfoundland  !  An  English  steamship  lies  at  anchor  in 
the  offing.  The  vessel  is  plainly  visible  through  the  open  door-way 
of  a  large  boat-house  on  the  shore — one  of  the  buildings  attached 
to  a  fishing-station  on  the  coast  of  the  island. 

The  only  person  in  the  boat-house  at  this  moment  is  a  man  in  the 
dress  of  a  sailor.  He  is  seated  on  a  chest,  with  a  piece  of  cord  in 
his  hand,  looking  out  idly  at  the  sea.  On  the  rough  carpenter's  ta- 
ble near  him  lies  a  strange  object  to  be  left  in  such  a  place — a  wom- 
an's veil. 

What  is  the  vessel  lying  at  anchor  in  the  offing? 

The  vessel  is  the  Amazon — dispatched  from  England  to  receive 
the  surviving  officers  and  men  of  the  Arctic  Expedition.  The  meet- 
ing has  been  successfully  effected,  on  the  shores  of  North  America, 
three  days  since.  But  the  homeward  voyage  has  been  delayed  by  a 
storm  which  has  driven  the  ship  out  of  her  course.  Taking  advan- 
tage, on  the  third  day,  of  the  first  returning  calm,  the  commander 
of  the  Amazon  has  anchored  off  the  coast  of  Newfoundland,  and  has 
sent  ashore  to  increase  his  supplies  of  water  before  he  sails  for  En- 
gland. The  weary  passengers  have  landed  for  a  few  hours,  to  re- 
fresh themselves  after  the  discomforts  of  the  tempest.  Among  them 
are  the  two  ladies.  The  veil  left  on  the  table  in  the  boat-house  is 
Clara's  veil. 

And  who  is  the  man  sitting  on  the  chest,  with  the  cord  in  his 
hand,  looking  out  idly  at  the  sea  ?  The  man  is  the  only  cheerful 
person  in  the  ship's  company.  In  other  words — John  Want. 

Still  reposing  on  the  chest,  our  friend,  who  never  grumbles,  is  sur- 
prised by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  sailor  at  the  boat-house  door. 

"  Look  sharp  with  your  work  there,  John  Want !"  says  the  sailor. 
"  Lieutenant  Crayford  is  just  coming  in  to  look  after  you." 

With  this  warning  the  messenger  disappears  again.  John  Want 
rises  with  a  groan,  turns  the  chest  up  on  one  end,  and  begins  to 
fasten  the  cord  round  it.  The  ship's  cook  is  not  a  man  to  look  back 
on  his  rescue  with  the  feeling  of  unmitigated  satisfaction  which  an- 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  505 

imates  his  companions  in  trouble?  On  the  contrary,  he  is  ungrate- 
fully disposed  to  regret  the  North  Pole. 

"  If  I  had  only  known  " — thus  runs  the  train  of  thought  in  the 
mind  of  John  Want — "  if  I  had  only  known,  before  I  was  rescued, 
that  I  was  to  be  brought  to  this  place,  I  believe  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred staying  at  the  North  Pole.  I  was  very  happy  keeping  up  ev- 
ery body's  spirits  at  the  North  Pole.  Taking  one  tiling  with  anoth- 
er, I  think  I  must  have  been  very  comfortable  at  the  North  Pole — 
if  I  had  only  known  it.  Another  man  in  my  place  might  be  in- 
clined to  say  that  this  Newfoundland  boat-house  was  rather  a  slop- 
py, slimy,  draughty,  fishy  sort  of  a  habitation  to  take  shelter  in. 
Another  man  might  object  to  perpetual  Newfoundland  fogs,  perpet- 
ual Newfoundland  cod-fish,  and  perpetual  Newfoundland  dogs.  We 
had  some  very  nice  bears  at  the  North  Pole.  Never  mind!  it's  all 
one  to  me — /  don't  grumble." 

"Have  you  done  cording  that  box  ?" 

This  time  the  voice  is  a  voice  of  authority — the  man  at  the  door- 
way is  Lieutenant  Crayford  himself.  John  Want  answers  his  officer 
in  his  own  cheerful  way. 

"I've  done  it  as  well  as  I  can,  sir — but  the  damp  of  this  place  is 
beginning  to  tell  upon  our  very  ropes.  I  say  nothing  about  our 
lungs — I  only  say  our  ropes." 

Crayford  answers  sharply.  He  seems  to  have  lost  his  former  rel- 
ish for  the  humor  of  John  Want. 

"Pooh  !  To  look  at  your  wry  face, one  would  think  that  our  res- 
cue from  the  Arctic  regions  was  a  downright  misfortune.  You  de- 
serve to  be  sent  back  again." 

"I  could  be  just  as  cheerful  as  ever,  sir,  if  I  was  sent  back  again. 
I  hope  I'm  thankful;  but  I  don't  like  to  hear  the  North  Pole  run 
down  in  such  a  fishy  place  as  this.  It  was  very  clean  and  snowy  at 
the  North  Pole — and  it's  very  damp  and  sandy  here.  Do  you  never 
mi>s  your  bone-soup, sir?  /do.  It  mightn't  have  been  strong ;  but 
it  was  very  hot;  and  the  cold  seemed  to  give  it  a  kind  of  a  meaty 
flavor  as  it  went  down.  Was  it  you  that  was  a-coughing  so  long 
last  night,  sir  (  I  don't  presume  to  say  any  thing  against  the  air  of 
these  latitudes;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  know  it  wasn't  you  that 
was  a-coughing  so  hollow.  Would  you  be  so  obliging  as  just  to 
feel  the  state  of  these  ropes  with  the  ends  of  your  fingers,  sir  ?  You 
can  dry  them  afterward  on  the  back  of  my  jacket." 

"  You  ought  to  have  a  stick  laid  on  the  back  of  your  jacket.  Take 
that  box  down  to  the  boat  directly.  You  croaking  vagabond  !  You 
would  have  grumbled  in  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

The  philosopher  of  the  Expedition  was  not  a  man  to  be  silenced 
by  referring  him  to  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Paradise  itself  was  not 
perfect  to  John  Want. 


506  THE   FROZEN   DEEP. 

"  I  hope  I  could  be  cheerful  anywhere,  sir,"  said  the  ship's  cook. 
"  But  you  mark  my  words — there  must  have  been  a  deal  of  trouble- 
some work  with  the  flower-beds  in  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

Having  entered  that  unanswerable  protest,  John  Want  shouldered 
the  box,  and  drifted  drearily  out  of  the  boat-house. 

Left  by  himself,  Crayford  looked  at  his  watch,  and  called  to  a 
sailor  outside. 

"  Where  are  the  ladies  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Crayford  is  coming  this  way,  sir.  She  was  just  behind  you 
when  you  came  in." 

"  Is  Miss  Burnham  with  her  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  Miss  Burnham  is  down  on  the  beach  with  the  passen- 
gers. I  heard  the  young  lady  asking  after  you,  sir." 

"  Asking  after  me  ?"  Crayford  considered  with  himself  as  he  re- 
peated the  words.  He  added,  in  lower  and  graver  tones,  "  You  had 
better  tell  Miss  Burnham  you  have  seen  me  here." 

The  man  made  his  salute  and  went  out.  Crayford  took  a  turn  in 
the  boat-house. 

Rescued  from  death  in  the  Arctic  wastes,  and  reunited  to  a  beau- 
tiful wife,  the  lieutenant  looked,  nevertheless,  unaccountably  anxious 
and  depressed.  What  could  he  be  thinking  of?  He  was  thinking 
of  Clara. 

On  the  first  day  when  the  rescued  men  were  received  on  board  the 
Amazon,  Clara  had  embarrassed  and  distressed,  not  Crayford  only, 
but  the  other  officers  of  the  Expedition  as  well,  by  the  manner  in 
which  she  questioned  them  on  the  subject  of  Francis  Aldersley  and 
Richard  Wardour.  She  had  shown  no  signs  of  dismay  or  despair 
when  she  heard  that  no  news  had  been  received  of  the  two  missing 
men.  She  had  even  smiled  sadly  to  herself,  when  Crayford  (out  of 
compassionate  regard  for  her)  declared  that  he  and  his  comrades  had 
not  given  up  the  hope  of  seeing  Frank  and  Wardour  yet.  It  was 
only  when  the  lieutenant  had  expressed  himself  in  those  terms — 
and  when  it  was  hoped  that  the  painful  subject  had  been  dismissed 
— that  Clara  had  startled  every  one  present  by  announcing  that  she 
had  something  still  to  say  in  relation  to  Frank  and  Wardour,  which 
had  not  been  said  yet.  Though  she  spoke  guardedly,  her  next  words 
revealed  suspicions  of  foul  play  lurking  in  her  mind — exactly  reflect- 
ing similar  suspicions  lurking  in  Crayford's  mind — which  so  distress- 
ed the  lieutenant,  and  so  surprised  his  comrades,  as  to  render  them 
quite  incapable  of  answering  her.  The  warnings  of  the  storm  which 
shortly  afterward  broke  over  the  vessel  were  then  visible  in  sea  and 
sky.  Crayford  made  them  his  excuse  for  abruptly  leaving  the  cabin 
in  which  the  conversation  had  taken  place.  His  brother  officers, 
profiting  by  his  example,  pleaded  their  duties  on  deck,  and  followed 
him  out. 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  507 

On  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  the  tempest  still  raged — and  the 
passengers  were  not  able  to  leave  their  state-rooms.  But  now,  when 
the  weather  had  moderated  and  the  ship  had  anchored — now,  when 
officers  and  passengers  alike  were  on  shore,  with  leisure  time  at  their 
disposal — CM  lira  had  opportunities  of  returning  to  the  subject  of  the 
lost  men,  and  of  asking  questions  in  relation  to  them  which  would 
make  it  impossible  for  Crayford  to  plead  an  excuse  for  not  answer- 
ing her.  How  was  he  to  meet  those  questions  ?  How  could  he  still 
krrp  IHT  in  ignorance  of  the  truth? 

Tin  se  were  the  reflections  which  now  troubled  Crayford,  and 
which  presented  him,  after  his  rescue,  in  the  strangely  inappropriate 
character  of  a  depressed  and  anxious  man.  His  brother  officers,  as 
he  well  knew,  looked  to  him  to  take  the  chief  responsibility.  If  he 
declined  to  accept  it,  he  would  instantly  confirm  the  horrible  sus- 
picion in  Clara's  mind.  The  emergency  must  be  met;  but  how  to 
meet  it — at  once  honorably  and  mercifully — was  more  than  Cray- 
ford  could  tell.  He  was  still  lost  in  his  own  gloomy  thoughts  when 
his  wife  entered  the  boat-house.  Turning  to  look  at  her,  he  saw  his 
own  perturbations  and  anxieties  plainly  reflected  in  Mrs.  Crayford's 
face. 

"  Have  you  seen  any  thing  of  Clara  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is  she  still  on 
the  beach  ?" 

"  She  is  following  me  to  this  place,"  Mrs.  Crayford  replied.  "  I 
have  been  speaking  to  her  this  morning.  She  is  just  as  resolute  as 
ever  to  insist  on  your  telling  her  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
Frank  is  missing.  As  things  are,  you  have  no  alternative  but  to 
answer  her." 

"  Help  me  to  answer  her,  Lucy.  Tell  me,  before  she  comes  in,  how 
this  dreadful  suspicion  first  took  possession  of  her.  All  she  could 
possibly  have  known  when  we  left  England  was  that  the  two  men 
were  appointed  to  separate  ships.  What  could  have  led  her  to  sus- 
pect that  they  had  come  together?" 

"  She  was  firmly  persuaded,  William,  that  they  would  come  to- 
gether when  the  Expedition  left  England.  And  she  had  read  in 
books  of  Arctic  travel,  of  men  left  behind  by  their  comrades  on  the 
march,  and  of  men  adrift  on  icebergs.  With  her  mind  full  of  these 
images  and  forelwdings,  she  saw  Frank  and  Wardour  (or  dreamed  of 
them)  in  one  of  her  attacks  of  trance.  I  was  by  her  side ;  I  heard 
what  she  said  at  the  time.  She  warned  Frank  that  Wardour  had 
discovered  the  truth.  She  called  out  to  him, '  While  you. can  stand, 
keep  with  the  other  men,  Frank  !'  " 

"Good  God !"  cried  Crayford;  "  I  warned  him  myself,  almost  in 
those  very  words,  the  last  time  I  saw  him!" 

"Don't  acknowledge  it,  William!  Keep  her  in  ignorance  of 
what  you  have  just  told  me.  She  will  not  take  it  for  what  it  is — a 


508  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

startling  coincidence,  and  nothing  more.  She  will  accept  it  as  pos- 
itive confirmation  of  the  faith,  the  miserable  superstitious  faith,  that 
is  in  her.  So  long  as  you  don't  actually  know  that  Frank  is  dead, 
and  that  he  has  died  by  Wardour's  hand,  deny  what  she  says  — 
mislead  her  for  her  own  sake — dispute  all  her  conclusions  as  I  dis- 
pute them.  Help  me  to  raise  her  to  the  better  and  nobler  belief  in 
the  mercy  of  God !"  She  stopped,  and  looked  round  nervously  at 
the  door-way.  "  Hush !"  she  whispered.  "  Do  as  I  have  told  you. 
Clara  is  here." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

CLARA  stopped  at  the  door-way,  looking  backward  and  forward 
distrustfully  between  the  husband  and  wife.  Entering  the  boat- 
house,  and  approaching  Cray  ford,  she  took  his  arm,  and  led  him 
away  a  few  steps  from  the  place  in  which  Mrs.  Crayford  was  standing. 

"  There  is  no  storm  now,  and  these  are  no  duties  to  be  done  on 
board  the  ship,"  she  said,  with  the  faint,  sad  smile  which  it  wrung 
Crayford's  heart  to  see.  "  You  are  Lucy's  husband,  and  you  have 
an  interest  in  me  for  Lucy's  sake.  Don't  shrink  on  that  account 
from  giving  me  pain :  I  can  bear  pain.  Friend  and  brother !  will 
you  believe  that  I  have  courage  enough  to  hear  the  worst?  Will 
you  promise  not  to  deceive  me  about  Frank  ?" 

The  gentle  resignation  in  her  voice,  the  sad  pleading  in  her  look, 
shook  Crayford's  self-possession  at  the  outset.  He  answered  her  in 
the  worst  possible  manner ;  he  answered  evasively. 

"  My  dear  Clara,"  he  said,  "  what  have  I  done  that  you  should 
suspect  me  of  deceiving  you  ?" 

She  looked  him  searchingly  in  the  face,  then  glanced  with  re- 
newed distrust  at  Mrs.  Crayford.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 
Before  any  of  the  three  could  speak  again,  they  were  interrupted  by 
the  appearance  of  one  of  Crayford's  brother  officers,  followed  by 
two  sailors  carrying  a  hamper  between  them.  Crayford  instantly 
dropped  Clara's  arm,  and  seized  the  welcome  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing of  other  things. 

"Any  instructions  from  the  ship,  Steventon  ?"  he  asked,  approach- 
ing the  officer. 

"Verbal  instructions  only,"  Steventon  replied.  "The  ship  will 
sail  with  the  flood-tide.  We  shall  fire  a  gun  to  collect  the  people, 
and  send  another  boat  ashore.  In  the  mean  time  here  are  some  re- 
freshments for  the  passengers.  The  ship  is  in  a  state  of  confusion ; 
the  ladies  will  eat  their  luncheon  more  comfortably  here." 

Hearing  this,  Mrs.  Crayford  took  her  opportunity  of  silencing 
Clara  next. 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  509 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  lay  the  cloth  before  the 
gentlemen  come  in." 

Clara  was  too  seriously  bent  on  attaining  the  object  which  she 
had  in  view  to  be  silenced  in  that  way.  "  I  will  help  you  directly," 
she  answered — then  crossed  the  room  and  addressed  herself  to  the 
officer,  whose  name  was  Steventon. 

"  Can  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you." 

"  I  am  entirely  at  your  service,  Miss  Burnham." 

Answering  in  those  words,  Steventon  dismissed  the  two  sailors. 
Mrs.  Crayford  looked  anxiously  at  her  husband.  Crayford  whisper- 
ed to  her,  "  Don't  be  alarmed  about  Steventon.  I  have  cautioned 
him  ;  his  discretion  is  to  be  depended  on." 

Clara  beckoned  to  Crayford  to  return  to  her.. 

"  I  will  not  keep  you  long,"  she  said.  "  I  will  promise  not  to  dis- 
tress Mr.  Steventon.  Young  as  I  am,  you  shall  both  find  that  I  am 
capable  of  self-control.  I  won't  ask  you  to  go  back  to  the  story  of 
your  past  sufferings;  I  only  want  to  be  sure  that  I  am  right  about 
one  thing — I  mean  about  what  happened  at  the  time  when  the  ex- 
ploring party  was  dispatched  in  search  of  help.  As  I  understand 
it,  you  cast  lots  among  yourselves  who  was  to  go  with  the  party, 
and  who  was  to  remain  behind.  Frank  cast  the  lot  to  go."  She 
paused,  shuddering.  "And  Richard  Wardour,"  she  went  on,  "  cast 
the  lot  to  remain  behind.  On  your  honor,  as  officers  and  gentle- 
men, is  this  the  truth  ?" 

"  On  my  honor,"  Crayford  answered,  "  it  is  the  truth." 

"  On  my  honor,"  Steventon  repeated,  "  it  is  the  truth." 

She  looked  at  them,  carefully  considering  her  next  words,  before 
she  spoke  again. 

"  You  both  drew  the  lot  to  stay  in  the  huts,"  she  said,  addressing 
Crayford  and  Steventon.  "And  you  are  both  here.  Richard  War- 
dour  drew  the  lot  to  stay,  and  Richard  Wardour  is  not  here.  How 
does  his  name  come  to  be  with  Frank's  on  the  list  of  the  missing?" 

The  question  was  a  dangerous  one  to  answer.  Steventon  left  it 
to  Crayford  to  reply.  Once  again  he  answered  evasively. 

"  It  doesn't  follow,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  that  the  two  men  were 
missing  together  because  their  names  happen  to  come  together  on 
the  list." 

Clara  instantly  drew  the  inevitable  conclusion  from  that  ill-con- 
sidered reply. 

"  Frank  is  missing  from  the  party  of  relief,"  she  said.  "Am  I  to 
understand  that  Wardour  is  missing  from  the  huts  ?" 

Both  Crayford  and  Steventon  hesitated.  Mrs.  Crayford  cast  one 
indignant  look  at  them,  and  told  the  necessary  lie,  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation ! 


510  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

"  Yes  !"  she  said.     "  Wardour  is  missing  from  the  huts." 

Quickly  as  she  had  spoken,  she  had  still  spoken  too  late.  Clara 
had  noticed  the  momentary  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  two  offi- 
cers. She  turned  to  Steventon. 

"  I  trust  to  your  honor,"  she  said,  quietly.  "Am  I  right,  or  wrong, 
in  believing  that  Mrs.  Crayford  is  mistaken  ?" 

She  had  addressed  herself  to  the  right  man  of  the  two.  Steven- 
ton  had  no  wife  present  to  exercise  authority  over  him.  Steven- 
ton,  put  on  his  honor,  and  fairly  forced  to  say  something,  owned 
the  truth.  Wardour  had  replaced  an  officer  whom  accident  had 
disabled  from  accompanying  the  party  of  relief,  and  Wardour  and 
Frank  were  missing  together. 

Clara  looked  at  Mrs.  Crayford. 

"  You  hear  ?"  she^  said.  "  It  is  you  who  are  mistaken,  not  I. 
What  you  call  'Accident,'  what  I  call '  Fate,'  brought  Richard  War- 
dour  and  Frank  together  as  members  of  the  same  Expedition,  after 
all."  Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  again  turned  to  Steventon, 
and  surprised  him  by  changing  the  painful  subject  of  the  conversa- 
tion of  her  own  accord. 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have  never  been  in  the  Highlands,"  the  lieutenant  replied. 

"  Have  you  ever  read,  in  books  about  the  Highlands,  of  such  a 
thing  as '  The  Second  Sight  ?' " 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  the  Second  Sight  ?" 

Steventon  politely  declined  to  commit  himself  to  a  direct  reply. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  might  have  done,  if  I  had  ever  been  in  the 
Highlands,"  he  said.  "As  it  is,  I  have  had  no  opportunities  of  giv- 
ing the  subject  any  serious  consideration." 

"  I  won't  put  your  credulity  to  the  test,"  Clara  proceeded.  "  I 
won't  ask  you  to  believe  any  thing  more  extraordinary  than  that  I 
had  a  strange  dream  in  England  not  very  long  since.  My  dream 
showed  me  what  you  have  just  acknowledged — and  more  than  that. 
How  did  the  two  missing  men  come  to  be  parted  from  their  com- 
panions ?  Were  they  lost  by  pure  accident,  or  were  they  deliberate- 
ly left  behind  on  the  march  ?" 

Crayford  made  a  last  vain  effort  to  check  her  inquiries  at  the 
point  which  they  had  now  reached. 

"Neither  Steventon  nor  I  were  members  of  the  party  of  relief,"  he 
said.  "  How  are  we  to  answer  you  ?" 

"  Your  brother  officers  who  were  members  of  the  party  must  have 
told  you  what  happened,"  Clara  rejoined.  "  I  only  ask  you  and  Mr. 
Steventon  to  tell  me  what  they  told  you." 

Mrs.  Crayford  interposed  again,  with  a  practical  suggestion  this 
time. 


TlIK    KKo/K.V    DEEP.  511 

-Tin'  luncheon  is  not  unpacked  yd."  she  said.  "Come,  Clara! 
this  is  our  business,  inul  the  time  is  passing." 

-The  luncheon  can  wait  a  few  minutes  longer,"  Clara  answered. 
••  Bear  with  my  obstinacy,"  she  went  on,  laying  her  hand  caressing- 
ly on  Crayford' s  shoulder.  "  Tell  me  how  those  two  came  to  be  sep- 
arated from  the  rest.  You  have  always  l>een  the  kindest  of  friends 
—don't  begin  to  be  cruel  to  me  now !" 

The  tone  in  which  she  made  her  entreaty  to  Crayford  went  straight 
to  the  sailor's  heart.  He  gave  up  the  hopeless  struggle :  he  let  her 
see  a  glimpse  of  the  truth. 

"On  the  third  day  out,"  he  said,  "Frank's  strength  failed  him. 
lie  fell  behind  the  rest  from  fatigue." 

"  Surely  they  waited  for  him  ?" 

"  It  was  a  serious  risk  to  wait  for  him,  my  child.  Their  lives  (and 
the  lives  of  the  men  they  had  left  in  the  huts)  depended,  in  that 
dreadful  climate,  on  their  pushing  on.  But  Frank  was  a.  favorite. 
They  waited  half  a  day  to  give  Frank  the  chance  of  recovering  his 
strength." 

There  he  stopped.  There  the  imprudence  into  which  his  fond- 
ness tor  Clara  had  led  him  showed  itself  plainly,  and  closed  his  lips. 

It  was  too  late  to  take  refuge  in  silence.  Clara  was  determined 
on  hearing  more. 

She  questioned  Steventon  next. 

"  Did  Frank  go  on  again  after  the  halt-day's  rest  ?"  she  asked. 

••  He  tried  to  <<o  on — " 

"An. I  tailed  C 

"  Yes." 

"What  did  the  men  do  when  he  failed  ?  Did  they  turn  cowards? 
Did  they  desert  Frank  ?" 

She  had  purposely  used  language  which  might  irritate  Steventon 
into  answering  her  plainly.  He  was  a  young  man — he  fell  into  the 
snare  that  she  had  set  for  him. 

"Not  one  among  them  was  a  coward.  Miss  Burnham  !"  he  replied, 
warmly.  '•  You  are  speaking  cruelly  and  unjustly  of  as  brave  a  set 
of  fellows  as  ever  lived  !  The  strongest  man  among  them  set  the 
example;  he  volunteered  to  stay  by  Frank,  and  to  bring  him  on  in 
the  track  of  the  exploring  party." 

There  Steventon  stopped — conscious,  on  his  side,  that  he  had  said 
too  much.  Would  she  ask  him  who  this  volunteer  was?  No.  She 
went  straight  on  to  the  most  embarrassing  question  that  she  had  put 
yet — referring  to  the  volunteer,  as  if  Steventon  had  already  men- 
tioned his  name. 

"  What  made  Richard  Wardour  so  ready  to  risk  his  life  for  Frank's 
sake  '."  >he  said  to  Crayford.  "  Did  he  do  it  out  of  friendship  for 
Frank  ?  Surely  you  can  tell  me  that  ?  Carry  your  memory  back 


512  THE    FROZEN   DEEP. 

to  the  days  when  you  were  all  living  in  the  huts.  Were  Frank  and 
Wardour  friends  at  that  time  ?  Did  you  never  hear  any  angry  words 
pass  between  them  ?" 

There  Mrs.  Crayford  saw  her  opportunity  of  giving  her  husband  a 
timely  hint. 

"  My  dear  child  !"  she  said ;  "  how  can  you  expect  him  to  remem- 
ber that?  There  must  have  been  plenty  of  quarrels  among  the 
men,  all  shut  up  together,  and  all  weary  of  each  other's  company,  no 
doubt." 

"  Plenty  of  quarrels !"  Crayford  repeated ;  "  and  every  one  of  them 
made  up  again." 

"And  every  one  of  them  made  up  again,"  Mrs.  Crayford  reiterated, 
in  her  turn.  "  There  !  a  plainer  answer  than  that  you  can't  wish  to 
have.  Now  are  you  satisfied  ?  Mr.  Steventon,  come  and  lend  a 
hand  (as  you  say  at  sea)  with  the  hamper  —  Clara  won't  help  me. 
William,  don't  stand  there  doing  nothing.  This  hamper  holds  a 
great  deal ;  we  must  have  a  division  of  labor.  Your  division  shall 
be  laying  the  table-cloth.  Don't  handle  it  in  that  clumsy  way! 
You  unfold  a  table-cloth  as  if  you  were  unfurling  a  sail.  Put  the 
knives  on  the  right,  and  the  forks  on  the  left,  and  the  napkin  and 
the  bread  between  them.  Clara,  if  you  are  not  hungry  in  this  fine 
air,  you  ought  to  be.  Come  and  do  your  duty ;  come  and  have  some 
lunch  1" 

She  looked  up  as  she  spoke.  Clara  appeared  to  have  yielded  at 
last  to  the  conspiracy  to  keep  her  in  the  dark.  She  had  returned 
slowly  to  the  boat-house  door-way,  and  she  was  standing  alone  on 
the  threshold,  looking  out.  Approaching  her  to  lead  her  to  the 
luncheon-table,  Mrs.  Crayford  could  hear  that  she  was  speaking  soft- 
ly to  herself.  She  was  repeating  the  farewell  words  which  Richard 
Wardour  had  spoken  to  her  at  the  ball. 

"  '  A  time  may  come  when  I  shall  forgive  you.  But  the  man  who 
has  robbed  me  of  you  shall  rue  the  day  when  you  and  he  first  met.' 
O,  Frank !  Frank !  does  Richard  still  live,  with  your  blood  on  his 
conscience,  and  my  image  in  his  heart  ?" 

Her  lips  suddenly  closed.  She  started,  and  drew  back  from  the 
door-way,  trembling  violently.  Mrs.  Crayford  looked  out  at  the  quiet 
seaward  view. 

"Any  thing  there  that  frightens  you,  my  dear?"  she  asked.  "I 
can  see  nothing,  except  the  boats  drawn  up  on  the  beach." 

" I  can  see  nothing  either,  Lucy." 

"And  yet  you  are  trembling  as  if  there  was  something  dreadful 
in  the  view  from  this  door." 

"  There  is  something  dreadful !  I  feel  it,  though  I  see  nothing.  I 
feel  it,  nearer  and  nearer  in  the  empty  air,  darker  and  darker  in  the 
sunny  light.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  Take  me  away  !  No.  Not 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  813 

out  on  the  beach.  I  can't  pass  the  door.  Somewhere  else  1  some- 
where else !" 

Mrs.  Crayforcl  looked  round  her,  and  noticed  a  second  door  at  the 
inner  end  of  the  boat-house.  She  spoke  to  her  husband. 

"  See  where  that  door  leads  to,  William." 

Crayford  opened  the  door.  It  led  into  a  desolate  inclosure,  half 
garden,  half  yard.  Some  nets  stretched  on  poles  were  hanging  ,up 
to  diy.  No  other  objects  were  visible — not  a  living  creature  appear- 
ed in  the  place.  "It  doesn't  look  very  inviting, my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Crayford.  "  I  am  at  your  service,  however.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

She  offered  her  arm  to  Clara  as  she  spoke.  Clara  refused  it.  She 
took  Crayford's  arm,  and  clung  to  him. 

"  I'm  frightened,  dreadfully  frightened  !"  she  said  to  him,  faintly. 
•' y»n  kci'p  with  me — a  woman  is  no  protection;  I  want  to  be  with 
//""."  She  looked  round  again  at  the  boat-house  door-way.  "  Oh!" 
>hc  whispered, "  I'm  cold  all  over — I'm  frozen  with  fear  of  this  place. 
Come  into  the  yard  !  Come  into  the  yard  !" 

"  Leave  her  to  me,"  said  Crayford  to  his  wife.  "  I  will  call  you, 
if  she  doesn't  get  better  in  the  open  air." 

He  took  her  out  at  once,  and  closed  the  yard  door  behind  them. 

"  Mr.  Steventon,  do  you  understand  this  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Crayford. 
"  What  can  she  possibly  be  frightened  of?" 

She  put  the  question,  still  looking  mechanically  at  the  door  by 
which  her  husband  and  Clara  had  gone  out.  Receiving  no  reply, 
she  glanced  round  at  Steventon.  He  was  standing  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  luncheon-table,  with  his  eyes  fixed  attentively  on  the 
view  from  the  main  door -way  of  the  boat-house.  Mrs.  Crayford 
looked  where  Steventon  was  looking.  This  time  there  was  some- 
thing visible.  She  saw  the  shadow  of  a  human  figure  projected  on 
the  stretch  of  smooth  yellow  sand  in  front  of  the  boat-house. 

In  a  moment  more  the  figure  appeared.  A  man  came  slowly  into 
view,  and  stopped  on  the  threshold  of  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

THE  man  was  a  sinister  and  terrible  object  to  look  at.  His  eyes 
glared  like  the  eyes  of  a  wild  anim%2 ;  his  head  was  bare ;  his  long 
may  hair  was  torn  and  tangled  ;  his  miserable  garments  hung  about 
him  in  rags.  He  stood  in  the  door-way,  a  speechless  figure  of  misery 
and  want,  staring  at  the  well-spread  table  like  a  hungry  dog. 

Steventon  spoke  to  him. 

"  Who  are  you  ?" 

He  answered,  in  a  hoarse,  hollow  voice, 

22 


514  THE  FROZE:;  DEEP. 

"A  starving  man." 

He  advanced  a  few  steps,  slowly  and  painfully,  as  if  he  were  sink- 
ing under  fatigue. 

"  Throw  me  some  bones  from  the  table,"  he  said.  "  Give  me  my 
share  along  with  the  dogs." 

There  was  madness  as  well  as  hunger  in  his  eyes  while  he  spoke 
those  words.  Steventon  placed  Mrs.  Crayford  behind  him,  so  that 
he  might  be  easily  able  to  protect  her  in  case  of  need,  and  beckoned 
to  two  sailors  who  were  passing  the  door  of  the  boat-house  at  the 
time. 

"  Give  the  man  some  bread  and  meat,"  he  said,  "  and  wait  near 
him." 

The  outcast  seized  on  the  bread  and  meat  with  lean,  long-nailed 
hands  that  looked  like  claws.  After  his  first  mouthful  of  the  food, 
he  stopped,  considered  vacantly  with  himself,  and  broke  the  bread 
and  meat  into  two  portions.  One  portion  he  put  into  an  old  canvas 
wallet  that  hung  over  his  shoulder ;  the  other  he  devoured  vora- 
ciously. Steventon  questioned  him. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"  From  the  sea." 

"  Wrecked  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Steventon  turned  to  Mrs  Crayford. 

"  There  may  be  some  truth  in  the  poor  wretch's  story,"  he  said. 
"  I  heard  something  of  a  strange  boat  having  been  cast  on  the  beach 
thirty  or  forty  miles  higher  up  the  coast.  When  were  you  wrecked, 
my  man  ?" 

The  starving  creature  looked  up  from  his  food,  and  made  an  ef- 
fort to  collect  his  thoughts — to  exert  his  memory.  It  was  not  to  be 
done.  He  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair.  His  language,  when  he 
spoke,  was  as  wild  as  his  looks. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  get  the  wash  of  the  sea  out 
of  my  ears.  I  can't  get  the  shining  stars  all  night,  and  the  burning 
sun  all  day,  out  of  my  brain.  When  was  I  wrecked  ?  When  was  I 
first  adrift  in  the  boat  ?  When  did  I  get  the  tiller  in  my  hand  and 
fight  against  hunger  and  sleep?  When  did  the  gnawing  in  my 
breast,  and  the  burning  in  my  head,  first  begin  ?  I  have  lost  all 
reckoning  of  it.  I  can't  think;  I  can't  sleep;  I  can't  get  the  wash 
of  the  sea  out  of  my  ears.  What  are  you  baiting  me  with  questions 
for  ?  Let  me  eat !" 

Even  the  sailors  pitied  him.  The  sailors  asked  leave  of  their  offi- 
cer to  add  a  little  drink  to  his  meal. 

"  We've  got  a  drop  of  grog  with  us,  sir,  in  a  bottle.  May  we  give 
it  to  him  ?" 

"Certainly!" 


THE    FROZEN   DEEP.  515 

He  took  the  bottle  fiercely,  as  lie  had  taken  the  food,  drank  a  lit- 
tle, stopped,  ami  considered  with  himself  again.  He  held  up  the 
bottle  to  the  light,  and,  marking  how  much  liquor  it  contained,  care- 
fully drank  half  of  it  only.  This  done,  he  put  the  bottle  in  his  wal- 
let along  with  the  food. 

"  Are  you  saving  it  up  for  another  time  ?"  said  Steventon. 

"  I'm  saving  it  up,"  the  man  answered.  "  Never  mind  what  for. 
That's  my  secret." 

He  looked  round  the  boat-house  as  he  made  that  reply,  and  no- 
ticed Mrs.  Crayford  for  the  first  time. 

"A  woman  among  you!"  he  said.  "Is  she  English?  la  she 
young  ?  Let  me  look  closer  at  her." 

He  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  the  table. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Crayford,"  said  Steventon. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  Mrs.  Crayford  replied.  "  He  frightened  me  at 
first — he  interests  me  now.  Let  him  apeak  to  me  if  he  wishes  it !" 

He  never  spoke.  He  stood,  in  dead  silence,  looking  long  and 
anxiously  at  the  beautiful  Englishwoman. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Steventon. 

He  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  drew  back  again  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  No !"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that's  not  fter  face.  No  !  not  found 
yet." 

Mrs.  Crayford's  interest  was  strongly  excited.  She  ventured  to 
speak  to  him. 

"  Who  is  it  you  want  to  find  ?"  she  asked.    "  Your  wife  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"  Who,  then  ?     What  is  she  like  ?" 

He  answered  that  question  in  words.  His  hoarse,  hollow  voice 
softened,  little  by  little,  into  sorrowful  and  gentle  tones. 

"  Young,"  he  said  ;  "  with  a  fair,  sad  face — with  kind,  tender  eyea 
— with  a  soft,  clear  voice.  Young  and  loving  and  merciful.  I  keep 
her  face  in  my  mind,  though  I  can  keep  nothing  else.  I  must  wan- 
der, wander,  wander  —  restless,  sleepless,  homeless — till  I  find  Tier! 
Over  the  ice  and  over  the  snow ;  tossing  on  the  sea,  tramping  over 
the  land ;  awake  all  night,  awake  all  day ;  wander,  wander,  wander, 
till  I  find  fur!" 

He  waved  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  farewell,  and  turned  weari- 
ly to  go  out. 

At  the  same  moment  fray  ford  opened  the  yard  door. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  come  to  Clara,"  he  began,  and  checked 
himself,  noticing  the  stranger.  "Who  is  that  '." 

The  shipwrecked  man.  hearing  another  voice  in  the  room,  looked 
round  slowly  over  his  shoulder.  Struck  by  his  appearance,  Cray- 
ford  advanced  a  little  nearer  to  him.  Mrs.  Crayford  spoke  to  her 
husband  as  he  passed  her. 


51C  THE  FROZEN  DEEP,. 

"  It's  only  a  poor,  mad  creature,  William,"  she  whispered — "  ship- 
Wrecked  and  starving." 

"  Mad  ?"  Crayford  repeated,  approaching  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
man.  "  Am  I  in  my  right  senses  ?"  He  suddenly  sprang  on  the 
outcast,  and  seized  him  by  the  throat.  "  Richard  Wardour !"  he 
cried,  in  a  voice  of  fury.  "Alive  ! — alive,  to  answer  for  Frank  !" 

The  man  struggled.     Crayford  held  him. 

"  Where  is  Frank  ?"  he  said.     "  You  villain,  where  is  Frank  ?" 

The  man  resisted  no  longer.     He  repeated  vacantly, 

"  Villain  ?  and  where  is  Frank  ?" 

As  the  name  escaped  his  lips,  Clara  appeared  at  the  open  yard 
door,  and  hurried  into  the  room. 

"I  heard  Richard's  name!"  she  said.  "I  heard  Frank's  name! 
What  does  it  mean  ?" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  outcast  renewed  the  struggle  to  free 
himself,  with  a  sudden  frenzy  of  strength  which  Crayford  was  not 
able  to  resist.  He  broke  away  before  the  sailors  could  come  to  their 
officer's  assistance.  Half-way  down  the  length  of  the  room  he  and 
Clara  met  one  another  face  to  face.  A  new  light  sparkled  in  the 
poor  wretch's  eyes ;  a  cry  of  recognition  burst  from  his  lips.  He 
flung  one  hand  up  wildly  in  the  air.  "  Found !"  he  shouted,  and 
rushed  out  to  the  beach  before  any  of  the  men  present  could  stop 
him. 

Mrs.  Crayford  put  her  arms  round  Clara  and  held  her  up.  She 
had  not  made  a  movement :  she  had  not  spoken  a  word.  The  sight 
of  Wardour's  face  had  petrified  her. 

The  minutes  passed,  and  there  rose  a  sudden  burst  of  cheering 
from  the  sailors  on  the  beach,  near  the  spot  where  the  fishermen's 
boats  were  drawn  up.  Every  man  left  his  work.  Every  man  waved 
his  cap  in  the  air.  The  passengers,  near  at  hand,  caught  the  infec- 
tion of  enthusiasm,  and  joined  the  crew.  A  moment  more,  and 
Richard  Wardour  appeared  again  in  the  door-way,  carrying  a  man 
in  his  arms.  He  staggered,  breathless  with  the  effort  that  he  was 
making,  to  the  place  ^here  Clara  stood,  held  up  in  Mrs.  Crayford's 
arms. 

"  Saved,  Clara  !"  he  cried.     "  Saved  for  you  /" 

He  released  the  man,  and  placed  him  in  Clara's  arms. 

Frank  !  foot-sore  and  weary — but  living— saved ;  saved  for  her. 

"  Now,  Clara !"  cried  Mrs.  Crayford, "  which  of  us  is  right  ?  I  who 
believed  in  the  mercy  of  God  ?  or  you  who  believed  in  a  dream?" 

She  never  answered;  she  clung  to  Frank  in  speechless  ecstasy. 
She  never  even  looked  at  the  man  who  had  preserved  him,  in  the 
first  absorbing  joy  of  seeing  Frank  alive.  Step  by  step,  slower 
and  slower,  Richard  Wardour  drew  back,  and  left  them  by  them- 
selves. 


THE    FROZEN   DEEP.  517 

"  I  may  rest  now,"  he  said,  faintly.  "  I  may  sleep  at  last.  The 
task  is  done.  The  struggle  is  over." 

His  last  reserves  of  strength  had  been  given  to  Frank.  He  stop- 
ped— he  staggered — his  hands  waved  feebly  in  search  of  support. 
But  for  one  faithful  friend  he  would  have  fallen.  Crayford  caught 
him.  Crayford  laid  his  old  comrade  gently  on  some  sails  strewn  in 
a  corner,  and  pillowed  Wardour's  weary  head  on  his  own  bosom. 
The  tears  streamed  over  his  face.  "  Richard !  dear  Richard !"  he 
said.  "  Remember — and  forgive  me." 

Richard  neither  heeded  nor  heard  him.  His  dim  eyes  still  looked 
across  the  room  at  Clara  and  Frank. 

"  I  have  made  her  happy  !"  he  murmured.  "  I  may  lay  down  my 
weary  head  now  on  the  mother  earth  that  hushes  all  her  children  to 
rest  at  last.  Sink,  heart !  sink,  sink  to  rest !  Oh,  look  at  them !"  he 
said  to  Crayford,  with  a  burst  of  grief.  "  They  have  forgotten  me 
already." 

It  was  true !  The  interest  was  all  with  the  two  lovers.  Frank 
was  young  and  handsome  and  popular.  Officers,  passengers,  and 
sailors,  they  all  crowded  round  Frank.  They  all  forgot  the  martyr- 
ed man  who  had  saved  him — the  man  who  was  dying  in  Crayford's 
arms. 

Crayford  tried  once  more  to  attract  his  attention — to  win  his  rec- 
ognition while  there  was  yet  time. 

"  Richard,  speak  to  me !     Speak  to  your  old  friend  !" 

He  looked  round ;  he  vacantly  repeated  Crayford's  last  word. 

"  Friend  ?''  he  said.  "  My  eyes  are  dim,  friend — my  mind  is  dull. 
I  have  lost  all  memories  but  the  memory  of  her.  Dead  thoughts 
—  all  dead  thoughts  but  that  one  1  And  yet  you  look  at  me 
kindly !  Why  has  your  face  gone  down  with  the  wreck  of  all  the 
rest  ?" 

He  paused ;  his  face  changed ;  his  thoughts  drifted  back  from 
present  to  past ;  he  looked  at  Crayford  vacantly,  lost  in  the  terrible 
remembrances  that  were  rising  in  him,  as  the  shadows  rise  with  the 
coming  night. 

"  Hark  ye,  friend,"  he  whispered.  "  Never  let  Frank  know  it. 
There  was  a  time  when  the  fiend  within  me  hungered  for  his  life. 
I  had  my  hands  on  the  boat.  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Tempter 
speaking  to  me:  Launch  it,  and  leave  him  to  die!  I  waited  with 
my  hands  on  the  boat,  and  my  eyes  on  the  place  where  he  slept. 
'Leave  him!  leave  him!1  the  voice  whispered.  'Love  him  P  the 
lad's  voice  answered,  moaning  and  murmuring  in  his  sleep.  'Love 
him,  Clara,  for  helping  me!"  I  heard  the  morning  wind  come  up  in 
the  silence  over  the  great  deep.  Far  and  near,  I  heard  the  groan- 
ing of  the  floating  ice;  floating,  floating  to  the  clear  water  and  the 
balmy  air.  And  the  wicked  Voice  floated  away  with  it  —  away. 


513  THE   FBOZEN  DEEP. 

away,  away  forever  ?  '  Love  him !  love  him,  Clara,  for  helping  me.J 
No  wiud  could  float  that  away !  'Love  him,  Clara — ' " 

His  voice  sank  into  silence ;  his  head  dropped  on  Crayford's  breast. 
Frank  saw  it.  Frank  struggled  up  on  his  bleeding  feet,  and  parted 
the  friendly  throng  round  him.  Frank  had  not  forgotten  the  man 
who  had  saved  him. 

"Let  me  go  to  him!"  he  cried.  "I  must  and  will  go  to  him! 
Clara,  come  with  me." 

Clara  and  Steventon  supported  him  between  them.  He  fell  on  his 
knees  at  Wardour's  side ;  he  put  his  hand  on  Wardour's  bosom. 

"  Richard !" 

The  weary  eyes  opened  again.  The  sinking  voice  was  heard  feebly 
once  more. 

"Ah  !  poor  Frank.  I  didn't  forget  you,  Frank,  when  I  came  here 
to  beg.  I  remembered  you  lying  down  outside  in  the  shadow  of  the 
boats.  I  saved  you  your  share  of  the  food  and  drink.  Too  weak  to 
get  at  it  now  !  A  little  rest,  Frank !  I  shall  soon  be  strong  enough 
to  carry  you  down  to  the  ship." 

The  end  was  near.  They  all  saw  it  now.  The  men  reverently 
uncovered  their  heads  in  the  presence  of  Death.  In  an  agony  of 
despair,  Frank  appealed  to  the  friends  round  him. 

"  Get  something  to  strengthen  him,  for  God's  sake !  Oh,  men ! 
men  !  I  should  never  have  been  here  but  for  him !  He  has  given  all 
his  strength  to  my  weakness ;  and  now,  see  how  strong  /  am,  and 
how  weak  he  is  I  Clara,  I  held  by  his  arm  all  over  the  ice  and  snow. 
He  kept  watch  when  I  was  senseless  in  the  open  boat.  His  hand 
dragged  me  out  of  the  waves  when  we  were  wrecked.  Speak  to 
him,  Clara !  speak  to  him !"  His  voice  failed  him,  and  his  head 
dropped  on  Wardour's  breast. 

She  spoke,  as  well  as  her  tears  would  let  her. 

"  Richard,  have  you  forgotten  me  ?" 

He  rallied  at  the  sound  of  that  beloved  voice.  He  looked  up  at 
her  as  she  knelt  at  his  head. 

"  Forgotten  you  ?"  Still  looking  at  her,  he  lifted  his  hand  with 
an  effort,  and  laid  it  on  Frank.  "  Should  I  have  been  strong  enough 
to  save  him,  if  I  could  have  forgotten  you .?"  He  waited  a  moment, 
and  turned  his  face  feebly  toward  Crayford.  "  Stay !"  he  said. 
"  Some  one  was  here  and  spoke  to  me."  A  faint  light  of  recogni- 
tion glimmered  in  his  eyes.  "Ah,  Crayford!  I  recollect  now. 
Dear  Crayford  !  come  nearer !  My  mind  clears,  but  my  eyes  grow 
dim.  You  will  remember  me  kindly  for  Frank's  sake?  Poor 
Frank !  why  does  he  hide  his  face  ?  Is  he  crying  ?  Nearer,  Clara 
— I  want  to  look  my  last  at  you.  My  sister,  Clara !  Kiss  me,  sister, 
kiss  me  before  I  die  !" 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead.    A  faint  smile  trembled  on 


TUB   FROZEN   DEEP.  519 

his  lips.  It  passed  away ;  and  stillness  possessed  the  face — the  still- 
ness of  Death. 

Crayford's  voice  was  heard  in  the  silence. 

"  The  loss  is  ours,"  he  said.  "  The  gain  is  his.  He  has  won  the 
greatest  of  all  conquests — the  conquest  of  himself.  And  he  has  died 
in  tin-  moment  of  victory.  Not  one  of  us  here  but  may  live  to  envy 
hi»  glorious  death." 

The  distant  report  of  a  gun  came  from  the  ship  in  the  offing,  and 
signaled  the  return  to  England  and  to  home. 


END  OP  "  THE  FROZEN  DEEP." 


FATAL  FORTUNE. 

A  STORY  IN  TWO  PARTS. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 


ONE  fine  morning  more  than  three  months  since,  you  were  riding 
with  your  brother,  Miss  Anstell,  in  Hyde  Park.  It  was  a  hot  day, 
and  you  had  allowed  your  horses  to  fall  into  a  walking  pace.  As 
you  passed  the  railing  on  the  right-hand  side,  near  the  eastern  ex- 
tremity of  the  lake  in  the  park,  neither  you  nor  your  brother  noticed 
a  solitary  woman  loitering  on  the  footpath  to  look  at  the  riders  as 
they  went  by. 

The  solitary  woman  was  my  old  nurse,  Nancy  Connell.  And  these 
were  the  words  she  heard  exchanged  between  you  and  your  brother, 
as  you  slowly  passed  her: 

Your  brother  said,  uls  it  true  that  Mary  Brading  and  her  husband 
have  gone  to  America  ?" 

You  laughed,  as  if  the  question  amused  you,  and  answered,  "  Quite 
true." 

"  How  long  will  they  be  away  ?"  your  brother  asked  next. 

"  As  long  as  they  live,"  you  answered,  with  another  laugh. 

By  this  time  you  had  passed  beyond  Nancy  Council's  hearing. 
She  owns  to  having  followed  your  horses  a  few  steps  to  hear  what 
was  said  next.  She  looked  particularly  at  your  brother.  He  took 
your  reply  seriously ;  he  seemed  to  be  quite  astonished  by  it. 

"  Leave  Bngiand  and  settle  in  America !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Why 
should  they  do  that?" 

"  Who  can  tell  why  ?"  you  answered.  "  Mary  Brading's  husband 
is  mail,  and  Mary  Brading  herself  is  not  much  better." 

You  touched  your  horse  with  the  whip,  and  in  a  moment  more 
you  and  your  brother  were  out  of  my  old  nurse's  hearing.  She 
wrote  and  told  me  what  I  here  tell  you,  by  a  recent  mail.  I  have 
been  thinking  of  those  last  words  of  yours,  in  my  leisure  hours,  more 
seriously  than  you  would  suppose.  The  end  of  it  is  that  I  take  up 
my  pen,  on  behalf  of  my  husband  and  myself,  to  tell  you  the  story 


522  FATAL    FORTUNE. 

of  our  marriage,  and  the  reason  for  our  emigration  to  the  United 
States  of  America. 

It  matters  little  or  nothing  to  him  or  to  me  whether  our  friends 
in  England  think  us  both  mad  or  not.  Their  opinions,  hostile  or 
favorable,  are  of  no  sort  of  importance  to  us.  But  you  are  an  excep- 
tion to  the  rule.  In  by-gone  days  at  school  we  were  fast  and  firm 
friends ;  and— what  weighs  with  me  even  more  than  this — you  were 
heartily  loved  and  admired  by  my  dear  mother.  She  spoke  of  you 
tenderly  on  her  death-bed.  Events  have  separated  us  of  late  years. 
But  I  can  not  forget  the  old  times ;  and  I  can  not  feel  indifferent 
to  your  opinion  of  me  and  of  my  husband,  though  an  ocean  does 
separate  us,  and  though  we  are  never  likely  to  look  on  one  another 
again.  It  is  very  foolish  of  me,  I  dare  say,  to  take  seriously  to  heart 
what  you  said  in  one  of  your  thoughtless  moments.  I  can  only  plead 
in  excuse  that  I  have  gone  through  a  great  deal  of  suffering,  and 
that  I  was  always  (as  you  may  remember)  a  person  of  sensitive  tem- 
perament, easily  excited  and  easily  depressed. 

Enough  of  this.  Do  me  the  last  favor  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you. 
Read  what  follows,  and  judge  for  yourself  whether  my  husband  and 
I  are  quite  so  mad  as  you  were  disposed  to  think  us  when  Nancy 
Connell  heard  you  talking  to  your  brother  in  Hyde  Park. 

II. 

IT  is  now  more  than  a  year  since  I  went  to  Eastbourne,  on  the 
coast  of  Sussex,  with  my  father  and  my  brother  James. 

My  brother  had  then,  as  we  hoped,  recovered  from  the  effects  of  a 
fall  in  the  hunting-field.  He  complained,  however,  at  times  of  pain 
in  his  head ;  and  the  doctors  advised  us  to  try  the  sea-air.  We  re- 
moved to  Eastbourne,  without  a  suspicion  of  the  serious  nature  of 
the  injury  that  he  had  received.  For  a  few  days  all  went  well.  "We 
liked  the  place ;  the  air  agreed  with  us ;  and  we  determined  to  pro- 
long our  residence  for  some  weeks  to  come. 

On  our  sixth  day  at  the  sea-side — a  memorable  day  to  me,  for  rea- 
sons which  you  have  still  to  hear — my  brother  complained  again  of 
the  old  pain  in  his  head.  He  and  I  went  out  together  to  try  what 
exercise  would  do  toward  relieving  him.  We  walked  through  the 
town  to  the  fort  at  one  end  of  it,  and  then  followed  a  footpath  run- 
ning by  the  side  of  the  sea,  over  a  dreary  waste  of  shingle,  bounded 
at  its  inland  extremity  by  the  road  to  Hastings  and  by  the  marshy 
country  beyond. 

We  had  left  the  fort  at  some  little  distance  behind  us.  I  was 
walking  in  front,  and  James  was  following  me.  He  was  talking  as 
quietly  as  usual,  when  he  suddenly  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sen- 
tence. I  turned  round  in  surprise,  and  discovered  my  brother  pros- 
trate on  the  path,  in  convulsions  terrible  to  see. 


FATAL    FORTUNE.  523 

It  was  tin-  first  epileptic  fit  I  had  ever  witnessed.  My  presence  of 
mind  entirely  deserted  me.  I  could  only  wring  uiy  hands  in  horror, 
and  scream  for  help.  No  one  appeared  either  from  the  direction  of 
the  fort  or  of  the  high-road.  I  was  too  far  off,  I  suppose,  to  make 
myself  heard.  Looking  ahead  of  me  along  the  path,  I  discovered, 
to  my  infinite  relief,  the  figure  of  a  man  running  toward  me.  As  he 
came  nearer,  I  saw  that  he  was  unmistakably  a  gentleman — young, 
and  eager  to  be  of  service  to  me. 

"  Pray  compose  yourself,"  he  said,  after  a  look  at  my  brother.  "  It 
is  very  dreadful  to  see,  but  it  is  not  dangerous.  We  must  wait  until 
the  convulsions  are  over,  and  then  I  can  help  you." 

He  seemed  to  know  so  much  about  it  that  I  thought  he  might  be 
a  medical  man.  I  put  the  question  to  him  plainly. 

He  colored,  and  looked  a  little  confused. 

"  I  am  not  a  doctor,"  he  said.  "  I  happen  to  have  seen  persons 
afflicted  with  epilepsy ;  and  I  have  heard  medical  men  say  that  it  is 
useless  to  interfere  un.til  the  lit  is  over.  See !"  he  added.  "  Your 
brut  her  \3  quieter  already.  He  will  soon  feel  a  sense  of  relief  which 
will  more  than  compensate  him  for  what  he  has  suffered.  I  will 
help  him  to  get  to  the  fort,  and,  once  there,  we  can  send  for  a  car- 
riage to  take  him  home." 

In  five  minutes  more  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  fort;  the  stranger 
supporting  my  brother  as  attentively  and  tenderly  as  if  he  had  been 
an  old  friend.  When  the  carriage  had  been  obtained,  he  insisted 
on  Accompanying  us  to  our  own  door,  on  the  chance  that  his  serv- 
ices mitrlit  still  be  of  some  use.  He  left  us,  asking  permission  to 
call  and  inquire  after  James's  health  the  next  day.  A  more  modest, 
gentle,  and  unassuming  person  I  never  met  with.  He  not  only  ex- 
cited my  warmest  gratitude ;  he  interested  me  at  my  first  meeting 
with  him. 

I  lay  some  stress  on  the  impression  which  this  young  man  pro- 
duced on  me — why,  you  will  soon  find  out. 

The  next  day  the  stranger  paid  his  promised  visit  of  inquiry.  His 
card,  which  he  sent  up  stairs,  informed  us  that  his  name  was  Roland 
Cameron.  My  father — who  is  not  easily  pleased — took  a  liking  to 
him  at  once.  His  visit  was  prolonged,  at  our  request.  He  said  just 
enough  about  himself  to  satisfy  us  that  we  were  receiving  a  person 
who  was  at  least  of  equal  rank  with  ourselves.  Born  in  England, 
of  a  Scotch  family,  he  had  lost  both  his  parents.  Not  long  since, 
he  had  inherited  a  fortune  from  one  of  his  uncles.  It  struck  us  as 
a  little  strange  that  he  spoke  of  this  fortune,  with  a  marked  change 
to  melancholy  in  his  voice  and  his  manner.  The  subject  was,  tor 
some  inconceivable  reason,  evidently  distasteful  to  him.  Rich  as  he 
was,  he  acknowledged  that  he  led  u  simple  and  solitary  life.  He 
had  little  taste  for  society,  and  no  sympathies  in  common  with  the 


£24  FATAL   FORTUNE. 

average  young  men  of  his  age.  But  he  had  his  own  harmless 
pleasures  and  occupations;  and  past  sorrow  and  suffering  had 
taught  him  not  to  expect  too  much  from  life.  All  this  was  said 
modestly,  with  a  winning  charm  of  look  and  voice  which  indescriba- 
bly attracted  me.  His  personal  appearance  aided  the  favorable  im- 
pression which  his  manner  and  his  conversation  produced.  He  was 
of  the  middle  height,  lightly  and  firmly  built ;  his  complexion  pale; 
his  hands  and  feet  small,  and  finely  shaped;  his  brown  hair  curling 
naturally  ;  his  eyes  large  and  dark,  with  an  occasional  indecision  in 
their  expression  which  was  far  from  being  an  objection  to  them,  to 
my  taste.  It  seemed  to  harmonize  with  an  occasional  indecision  in 
his  talk  ;  proceeding,  as  I  was  inclined  to  think,  from  some  passing 
confusion  in  his  thoughts  which  it  always  cost  him  a  little  effort  to 
discipline  and  overcome.  Does  it  surprise  you  to  find  how  closely 
I  observed  a  man  who  was  only  a  chance  acquaintance,  at  my  first 
interview  with  him  ?  or  do  your  suspicions  enlighten  you,  and  do 
you  say  to  yourself,  She  has  fallen  in  love  with  Mr.  Roland  Cameron 
at  first  sight  ?  I  may  plead  in  my  own  defense,  that  I  was  not  quite 
romantic  enough  to  go  that  length.  But  I  own  I  waited  for  his  next 
visit  with  an  impatience  which  was  new  to  me  in  my  experience  of 
my  sober  self.  And,  worse  still,  when  the  day  came,  I  changed  my 
dress  three  times  before  my  newly  -  developed  vanity  was  satisfied 
with  the  picture  which  the  looking-glass  presented  to  me  of  myself. 

In  a  fortnight  more,  my  father  and  my  brother  began  to  look  on 
the  daily  companionship  of  our  new  friend  as  one  of  the  settled  in- 
stitutions of  their  lives.  In  a  fortnight  more,  Mr.  Roland  Cameron 
and  I — though  we  neither  of  us  ventured  to  acknowledge  it — were 
as  devotedly  in  love  with  each  other  as  two  young  people  could 
well  be.  Ah,  what  a  delightful  time  it  was  !  and  how  cruelly  soon 
our  happiness  came  to  an  end  ! 

During  the  brief  interval  which  I  have  just  described,  I  observed 
certain  peculiarities  in  Roland  Cameron's  conduct,  which  perplexed 
and  troubled  me  when  my  mind  was  busy  with  him  in  my  lonely 
moments. 

For  instance,  he  was  subject  to  the  strangest  lapses  into  silence, 
when  he  and  I  were  talking  together.  At  these  times  his  eyes  as- 
sumed a  weary,  absent  look,  and  his  mind  seemed  to  wander  away — 
far  from  the  conversation,  and  far  from  me.  He  was  perfectly  un- 
aware of  his  own  infirmity  ;  he  fell  into  it  unconsciously,  and  camo 
out  of  it  unconsciously.  If  I  noticed  that  he  had  not  been  attend- 
ing to  me,  or  if  I  asked  why  he  had  been  silent,  he  was  completely 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  what  I  meant:  I  puzzled  and  distressed 
him.  What  he  was  thinking  of  in  these  pauses  of  silence,  it  was 
impossible  to  guess.  His  face,  at  other  times  singularly  mobile  and 
expressive,  became  almost  a  perfect  blank.  Had  he  suffered  some 


FATAL    FORTUNE.  525 

terrible  shock  at  some  past  period  of  his  life?  and  had  his  mind 
iirvrr  quite  recovered  it?  I  longed  to  ask  him  the  question, and  yet 
I  shrank  from  doing  it,  I  was  so  sadly  afraid  of  distressing  him;  or,  to 
put  it  in  plainer  words,  I  was  so  truly  and  so  tenderly  fond  of  him. 

Thru,  again,  though  he  was  ordinarily,  I  sincerely  believe,  the 
most  gentle  and  most  lovable  of  men,  there  were  occasions  when 
he  would  surprise  me  by  violent  outbreaks  of  temper,  excited  by 
the  merest  trifles.  A  dog  barking  suddenly  at  his  heels,  or  a  boy 
throwing  stones  in  the  road,  or  an  importunate  shop-keeper  trying 
to  make  him  purchase  something  that  he  did  not  want,  would 
throw  him  into  a  frenzy  of  rage  which  was,  without  exaggeration, 
really  frightful  to  see.  He  always  apologized  for  these  outbreaks, 
in  terms  which  showed  that  he  was  sincerely  ashamed  of  his  own 
violence.  But  he  could  never  succeed  in  controlling  himself.  The 
lapses  into  passion,  like  the  lapses  into  silence,  took  him  into  their 
own  possession,  and  did  with  him,  for  the  time  being,  just  what  they 
pleased. 

One  more  example  of  Roland's  peculiarities,  and  I  have  done. 
The  strangeness  of  his  conduct  in  this  case  was  noticed  by  my  fa- 
ther and  my  brother,  as  well  as  by  me. 

When  Roland  was  with  us  in  the  evening,  whether  he  came  to 
(1  inner  or  to  tea,  he  invariably  left  us  exactly  at  nine  o'clock.  Try 
as  we  might  to  persuade  him  to  stay  longer,  he  always  politely  but 
poMtively  refused.  Even  I  had  no  influence  over  him  in  this  mat- 
ter. When  I  pressed  him  to  remain,  though  it  cost  him  an  effort, 
he  still  retired  exactly  as  the  clock  struck  nine.  He  gave  no  reason 
for  this  strange  proceeding;  he  only  said  that  it  was  a  habit  of  his, 
and  begged  us  to  indulge  him  in  it  without  asking  for  an  explana- 
tion. My  father  and  my  brother  (being  men)  succeeded  in  .control- 
ling their  curiosity.  For  my  part  (being  a  woman)  every  day  that 
pa— rd  only  made  me  more  and  more  eager  to  penetrate  the  mys- 
tery. I  privately  resolved  to  choose  my  time,  when  Roland  was  in 
a  partieularly  accessible  humor,  and  then  to  appeal  to  him  for  the  ex- 
planation which  he  had  hitherto  refused — as  a  special  favor  to  myself. 

In  two  days  more  I  found  my  opportunity. 

Some  friends  of  ours,  who  had  joined  us  at  Eastbourne,  proposed 
a  picnic  party  to  the  famous  neighboring  cliff  called  Beachey  Head. 
We  accepted  the  invitation.  The  day  was  lovely,  and  the  gyj»y 
dinner  was,  as  usual,  infinitely  preferable  (for  once  in  a  wayi  to  a 
formal  dinner  indoors.  Toward  evening,  our  little  assembly  sepa- 
rated into  parties  of  twos  and  threes  to  explore  the  neighborhood. 
Roland  and  I  found  ourselves  together,  as  a  matter  of  course.  We 
were  happy,  and  we  were  alone.  Was  it  the  right  or  the  wrong 
time  to  ask  the  fatal  question  ?  I  am  not  able  to  decide ;  I  only 
know  that  I  asked  it. 


526  FATAL   FOKTUNB. 

III. 

"  MB.  CAMERON,"  I  said,  "  will  you  make  allowances  for  a  weak 
woman  ?  And  will  you  tell  me  something  that  I  am  dying  to 
know  ?" 

He  walked  straight  into  the  trap,  with  that  entire  absence  of 
ready  wit,  or  small  suspicion  (I  leave  you  to  choose  the  right 
phrase),  which  is  so  much  like  men,  and  so  little  like  women. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  tell  me,"  I  asked,  "  why  you  always  insist  on  leaving  us  at 
nine  o'clock  ?" 

He  started,  and  looked  at  me  so  sadly,  so  reproachfully,  that  I 
would  have  given  every  thing  I  possessed  to  recall  the  rash  words 
that  had  just  passed  my  lips. 

"  If  I  consent  to  tell  you,"  he  replied,  after  a  momentary  struggle 
with  himself,  "  will  you  let  me  put  a  question  to  you  first,  and  will 
you  promise  to  answer  it  ?" 

I  gave  him  my  promise,  and  waited  eagerly  for  what  was  coming 
next. 

"  Miss  Brading,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  honestly,  do  you  think  I  am 
mad  ?" 

It  was  impossible  to  laugh  at  him  :  he  spoke  those  strange  words 
seriously — sternly,  I  might  almost  say. 

"  No  such  thought  ever  entered  my  head,"  I  answered. 

He  looked  at  me  very  earnestly. 

"  You  say  that  on  your  word  of  honor  ?" 

"  On  my  word  of  honor." 

I  answered  with  perfect  sincerity,  and  I  evidently  satisfied  him 
that  I  had  spoken  the  truth.  He  took  niy  hand,  and  lifted  it  grate- 
fully to  his  lips. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  simply.  "  You  encourage  me  to  tell  you 
a  very  sad  story." 

"Your  own  story  ?"  I  asked. 

"My  own  story.  Let  me  begin  by  telling  you  why  I  persist  in 
leaving  your  house  always  at  the  same  early  hour.  Whenever  I  go 
out,  I  am  bound  by  a  promise  to  the  person  with  whom  I  am  living 
at  Eastbourne,  to  return  at  a  quarter-past  nine  o'clock." 

"  The  person  with  whom  you  are  living  ?"  I  repeated.  "  You  are 
living  at  a  boarding-house,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  I  am  living,  Miss  Brading,  under  the  care  of  a  doctor  who  keeps 
an  asylum  for  the  insane.  He  has  taken  a  house  for  some  of  his 
wealthier  patients  at  the  sea-side ;  and  he  allows  me  my  liberty  in 
the  day-time,  on  condition  that  I  faithfully  perform  my  promise  at 
night.  It  is  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  from  your  house  to  the  doc- 
tor's, and  it  is  a  rule  that  the  patients  retire  at  half-past  nine  o'clock." 


FATAL   FORTUNE.  527 

Here  was  the  mystery  which  had  so  sorely  perplexed  me  reveal- 
ed at  last !  The  disclosure  literally  struck  me  speechless.  Uncon- 
sciously and  instinctively  I  drew  back  from  him  a  few  steps.  He 
fixed  his  sad  eyes  on  me  with  a  touching  look  of  entreaty. 

"  Don't  shrink  away  from  me,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  think  I  am 
mad." 

I  was  too  confused  and  distressed  to  know  what  to  say,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  I  was  too  fond  of  him  not  to  answer  that  appeal.  I 
took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  in  silence.  He  turned  his  head  aside 
for  a  moment.  I  thought  I  saw  a  tear  on  his  cheek.  I  felt  his  hand 
close  tremblingly  on  mine.  He  mastered  himself  with  surprising 
resolution ;  he  spoke  with  perfect  composure  when  he  looked  at  me 
•gain. 

"  Do  you  care  to  know  my  story,"  he  asked,  "  after  what  I  have 
just  told  you  ?" 

"  I  am  eager  to  hear  it,"  I  answered.  "  You  don't  know  how  I 
feel  for  you.  I  am  too  distressed  to  be  able  to  express  myself  in 
words." 

"  You  are  the  kindest  and  dearest  of  women  !"  he  said,  with  the 
utmost  fervor,  and  at  the  same  time  with  the  utmost  respect. 

We  sat  down  together  in  a  grassy  hollow  of  the  cliff,  with  our 
faces  toward  the  grand  gray  sea.  The  daylight  was  beginning  to 
fade  as  I  heard  the  story  which  made  me  Roland  Cameron's  wife. 

IV. 

"  MY  mother  died  when  I  was  an  infant  in  arms,"  he  began.  "  My 
father,  from  my  earliest  to  my  latest  recollections,  was  always  hard 
toward  me.  I  have  been  told  that  I  was  an  odd  child,  with  strange 
ways  of  my  own.  My  father  detested  any  thing  that  was  strongly 
marked,  any  thing  out  of  the  ordinary  way,  in  the  characters  and 
habits  of  the  persons  about  him.  He  himself  lived  (as  the  phrase 
is)  by  line  and  rule ;  and  he  determined  to  make  his  son  follow  his 
example.  I  was  subjected  to  severe  discipline  at  school,  and  I  was 
carefully  watched  afterward  at  college.  Looking  back  on  my  early 
life,  I  can  see  no  traces  of  happiness,  I  can  find  no  tokens  of  sympa- 
thy. Sad  submission  to  a  hard  destiny,  weary  wayfaring  over  un- 
friendly roads — such  is  the  story  of  my  life,  from  ten  years  old  to 
twenty. 

"I  passed  one  autumn  vacation  at  the  Cumberland  lakes;  and 
there  I  met  by  accident  witli  a  young  French  lady.  The  result  of 
that  meeting  decided  my  whole  after-life. 

"  She  filled  the  position  of  nursery  governess  in  the  house  of  a 
wealthy  Englishman.  I  had  frequent  opportunities  of  seeing  her. 
"\Ve  took  an  innocent  pleasure  in  each  other's  society.  Her  littlr 
experience  of  life  was  strangely  like  inuie.  There  was  a  perfect 


528  FATAL   FORTUNE. 

sympathy  of  thought  and  feeling  between  us.  We  loved,  or  thought 
we  loved.  I  was  not  twenty-one,  and  she  was  not  eighteen,  when  I 
asked  her  to  be  my  wife. 

"  I  can  understand  my  folly  now,  and  can  laugh  at  it,  or  lament 
over  it,  as  the  humor  moves  me.  And  yet  I  can't  help  pitying  my- 
self when  I  look  back  at  myself  at  that  time — I  was  so  young,  so 
hungry  for  a  little  sympathy,  so  weary  of  my  empty,  Men  iless  life. 
Well !  every  thing  is  comparative  in  this  world.  I  was  soon  to  re- 
gret, bitterly  to  regret,  that  friendless  life — wretched  as  it  was. 

"  The  poor  girl's  employer  discovered  our  attachment,  through  his 
wife.  He  at  once  communicated  with  my  father. 

"My  father  had  but  one  word  to  say — he  insisted  on  my  going 
abroad,  and  leaving  it  to  him  to  release  me  from  my  absurd  engage- 
ment in  my  absence.  I  answered  him  that  •  I  should  be  of  age  in  a 
few  months,  and  that  I  was  determined  to  marry  the  girl.  He  gave 
me  three  days  to  reconsider  that  resolution.  I  held  to  my  resolu- 
tion. In  a  week  afterward  I  was  declared  insane  by  two  medical 
men ;  and  I  was  placed  by  my  father  in  a  lunatic  asylum. 

"  Was  it  an  act  of  insanity  for  the  son  of  a  gentleman,  with  great 
expectations  before  him,  to  propose  marriage  to  a  nursery  governess? 
I  declare,  as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  know  of  no  other  act  of  mine 
which  could  justify  my  father,  and  justify  the  doctors,  in  placing  me 
under  restraint. 

"  I  was  three  years  in  that  asylum.  It  was  officially  reported  that 
the  air  did  not  agree  with  me.  I  was  removed,  for  two  years  more, 
to  another  asylum  in  a  remote  part  of  England.  For  the  live  best 
years  of  my  life  I  have  been  herded  with  madmen — and  my  reason 
has  survived  it.  The  impression  I  produce  on  you,  on  your  father, 
on  your  brother,  on  all  our  friends  at  this  picnic,  is  that  I  am  as 
reasonable  as  the  rest  of  my  fellow-creatures.  Am  I  rushing  to  a 
hasty  conclusion  when  I  assert  myself  to  be  now,  and  always  to  have 
been,  a  sane  man  ? 

"  At  the  end  of  my  five  years  of  arbitrary  imprisonment  in  a  free 
country,  happily  for  me — I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I  must  speak 
the  truth — happily  for  me,  my  merciless  father  died.  His  trustees, 
to  whom  I  was  now  consigned,  felt  some  pity  for  me.  They  could 
not  take  the  responsibility  of  granting  me  my  freedom.  But  they 
placed  me  under  the  care  of  a  surgeon,  who  received  me  into  his 
private  residence,  and  who  allowed  me  free  exercise  in  the  open  air. 

"  A  year's  trial  of  this  new  mode  of  life  satisfied  the  surgeon,  and 
satisfied  every  one  else  who  took  the  smallest  interest  in  me,  that  I 
was  perfectly  fit  to  enjoy  my  liberty.  I  was  freed  from  all  restraint, 
and  was  permitted  to  reside  with  a  near  relative  of  mine,  in  that 
very  Lake  country  which  had  been  the  scene  of  my  fatal  meeting 
with  the  French  girl,  six  years  before." 


FATAL  FOBTUNE. 


PART  THE  SECOND, 
v. 

"  I  LIVED  happily  in  the  house  of  my  relative,  satisfied  with  the 
ordinary  pursuits  of  a  country  gentleman.  Time  had  long  since 
cured  me  of  my  boyish  infatuation  for  the  nursery  governess.  I 
could  revisit  with  perfect  composure  the  paths  albng  which  we  had 
walked,  the  lake  on  which  we  had  sailed  together.  Hearing  by 
chance  that  she  was  married  in  her  own  country,  I  could  wish  her 
all  possible  happiness,  with  the  sober  kindness  of  a  disinterested 
friend.  What  a  strange  thread  of  irony  runs  through  the  texture 
of  the  simplest  human  life  !  The  early  love  for  which  I  had  sacri- 
ficed and  suffered  so  much,  was  now  revealed  to  me  in  its  true  col- 
ors, as  a  boy's  passing  fancy — nothing  more  ! 

"  Three  years  of  peaceful  freedom  passed ;  freedom  which,  on  the 
uncontradicted  testimony  of  respectable  witnesses,  I  never  abused. 
Well,  that  long  and  happy  interval,  like  all  intervals,  came  to  its 
end — and  then  the  great  misfortune  of  my  life  fell  upon  me.  One 
of  my  uncles  died,  and  left  me  inheritor  of  his  whole  fortune.  I 
alone,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other  heirs,  now  received,  not  only  the 
large  income  derived  from  the  estates,  but  seventy  thousand  pounds 
in  ready  money  as  well. 

"The  vile  calumny  which  had  asserted  me  to  be  mad  was  now 
revived  by  the  wretches  who  were  interested  in  stepping  between 
me  and  my  inheritance.  A  year  ago,  I  was  sent  back  to  the  asylum 
in  which  I  had  been  last  imprisoned.  The  pretense  for  confining 
me  was  found  in  an  '  act  of  violence '  (as  it  was  called),  which  I  had 
committed  in  a  momentary  outbreak  of  anger,  and  which  it  was  ac- 
knowledged had  led  to  no  serious  results.  Having  got  me  into  the 
asylum,  the  conspirators  proceeded  to  complete  their  work.  A  Com- 
mission in  Lunacy  was  issued  against  me.  It  was  held  by  one  Com- 
missioner, without  a  jury,  and  without  the  presence  of  a  lawyer  to 
assert  my  interests.  By  one  man's  decision  I  was  declared  to  be  of 
unsound  mind.  The  custody  of  my  person,  as  well  as  the  manage- 
ment of  my  estates,  was  confided  to  men  chosen  from  among  the 
conspirators  who  had  declared  me  to  IK;  mad.  I  am  here  through 
the  favor  of  the  proprietor  of  the  asylum,  who  has  given  me  my  hol- 
iday at  the  sea-side,  and  who  humanely  trusts  me  with  my  liberty,  as 
you  see.  At  barely  thirty  years  old,  I  am  refused  the  free  use  of  my 
money  and  the  free  management  of  my  affairs.  At  barely  thirty 
years  old,  I  am  officially  declared  to  be  a  lunatic  for  life  I" 


530  FATAL    FORTUNE. 

VI. 

HE  paused  ;  his  head  sank  on  his  breast;  his  story  was  told. 

I  have  repeated  his  words  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember  them ;  but 
I  c.m  give  no  idea  of  the  modest  and  touching  resignation  with 
which  he  spoke.  To  say  that  I  pitied  him  with  my  whole  heart,  is 
to  say  nothing.  I  loved  him  with  my  whole  heart — and  I  may  ac- 
knowledge it  now ! 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Cameron,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  could  trust  myself  to 
speak,  "  can  nothing  be  done  to  help  you  ?  Is  there  no  hope  ?" 

"  There  is  always  hope,"  he  answered,  without  raising  his  head. 
"  I  have  to  thank  you,  Miss  Brading,  for  teaching  me  that." 

"  To  thank  me  ?"  I  repeated.     "  How  have  I  taught  you  to  hope  ?" 

"You  have  brightened  my  dreary  life.  When  I  am  with  you,  all 
my  bitter  remembrances  leave  me.  I  am  a  happy  man  again  ;  and  a 
happy  man  can  always  hope.  I  dream  now  of  finding  what  I  have 
never  yet  had — a  dear  and  devoted  friend,  who  will  rouse  the  en- 
ergy that  has  sunk  in  me  under  the  martyrdom  that  I  have  endured. 
Why  do  I  submit  to  the  loss  of  my  rights  and  my  liberty,  without 
an  effort  to  recover  them?  I  was  alone  in  the  world  until  I  met 
with  you.  I  had  no  kind  hand  to  raise  me,  no  kind  voice  to  en- 
courage me.  Shall  I  ever  find  the  hand  ?  Shall  I  ever  hear  the 
voice  ?  When  I  am  with  you,  the  hope  that  you  have  taught  me 
answers  Yes.  When  I  am  by  myself,  the  old  despair  comes  back, 
and  says  No." 

He  lifted  his  head  for  the  first  time.  If  I  had  not  understood 
what  his  words  meant,  his  look  would  have  enlightened  me.  The 
tears  came  into  my  eyes;  my  heart  heaved  and  fluttered  wildly; 
my  hands  mechanically  tore  up  and  scattered  the  grass  round  me. 
The  silence  became  unendurable.  I  spoke,  hardly  knowing  what  I 
was  saying ;  tearing  faster  and  faster  at  the  poor  harmless  grass,  as 
if  my  whole  business  in  life  was  to  pull  up  the  greatest  quantity  in 
the  shortest  possible  space  of  time  ! 

"  We  have  only  known  each  other  a  little  while,"  I  said ;  "  and  a 
woman  is  but  a  weak  ally  in  such  a  terrible  position  as  yours.  But 
useless  as  I  may  be,  count  on  me,  now  and  always,  as  your  friend — 

He  moved  close  to  me  before  I  could  say  more,  and  took  my 
hand.  He  murmured  in  my  ear, 

"May  I  count  on  you  one  day  as  the  nearest  and  dearest  friend 
of  all  ?  Will  you  forgive  me,  Mary,  if  I  own  that  I  love  you  ?  You 
have  taught  me  to  love,  as  you  have  taught  me  to  hope.  It  is  in 
your  power  to  lighten  my  hard  lot.  You  can  recompense  me  for  all 
that  I  have  suffered ;  you  can  rouse  me  to  struggle  for  my  freedom 
and  my  rights.  Be  the  good  angel  of  my  life !  Forgive  me,  love 
me,  rescue  me — be  my  wrife  !" 


FATAL    FORTUNE.  531 

I  don't  know  how  it  happened.  I  found  myself  in  his  arms — and 
I  ati-wered  him  in  a  kiss.  Taking  all  the  circumstances  into  con- 
sideration, I  dare  say  I  was  guilty,  in  accepting  him,  of  the  rashest 
act  that  ever  a  woman  committed.  Very  good.  I  didn't  care  then 
— I  don't  care  now.  I  was  then,  and  I  am  now,  the  happiest  wom- 
an living. 

VII. 

IT  was  necessary  that  either  he  or  I  should  tell  my  father  of  what 
had  passed  ln-t wren  us.  On  reflection,  I  thought  it  best  that  I 
should  make  the  disclosure.  The  day  after  the  picnic,  I  repeated 
to  my  father  Roland's  melancholy  narrative,  as  ".necessary  preface 
to  the  announcement  that  I  had  promised  to  be  Roland's  wife. 

My  father  saw  the  obvious  objections  to  the  marriage.  He  warn- 
ed me  of  the  imprudence  which  I  had  contemplated  committing  in 
the  .strongest  terms.  Our  prospect  of  happiness,  if  we  married, 
would  depend  entirely  on  our  capacity  to  legally  supersede  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Lunacy  Commission.  Success  in  this  arduous  under- 
taking was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  uncertain.  The  commonest  pru- 
dence pointed  to  the  propriety  of  delaying  our  marriage  until  the 
doubtful  experiment  had  been  put  to  the  proof. 

This  reasoning  was  unanswerable.  It  was,  nevertheless,  com- 
pletely thrown  away  upon  me. 

When  did  a  woman  in  love  ever  listen  to  reason  ?  I  believe  there 
is  no  instance  of  it  on  record.  My  father's  wise  words  of  caution 
had  no  chance  against  Roland's  fervent  entreaties.  The  days  of  his 
residence  at  Eastbourne  were  drawing  to  a  close.  If  I  let  him  re- 
turn to  the  asylum  an  unmarried  man,  months,  years  perhaps,  might 
pass  before  our  union  could  take  place.  Could  I  expect  him,  could 
I  expect  any  man,  to  endure  that  cruel  separation,  that  unrelieved 
suspense?  His  mind  had  been  sorely  tried  already;  his  mind 
might  give  way  under  it.  These  were  the  arguments  that  carried 
weight  with  them,  in  my  judgment !  I  was  of  age,  and  free  to  act 
as  I  pleased.  You  are  welcome,  if  you  like,  to  consider  me  the  most 
foolish  and  the  most  obstinate  of  women.  In  sixteen  days  from  the 
date  of  the  picnic  Roland  and  I  were  privately  married  at  East- 
Ixmrne. 

My  father — more  grieved  than  angry,  poor  man— declined  to  be 
present  at  the  ceremony ;  in  justice  to  himself.  My  brother  gave 
me  away  at  the  altar. 

Roland  and  I  spent  the  afternoon  of  the  wedding-day  and  the  earli- 
er part  of  the  evening  together.  At  nine  o'clock  he  returned  to  the 
doctor's  house,  exactly  as  usual ;  having  previously  explained  to  me 
that  he  was  in  the  power  of  the  Court  of  Chancery,  and  that  until 
We  succeeded  in  setting  aside  the  proceedings  of  the  Lunacy  Com- 


532  FATAL   FORTUNE. 

mission  there  was  a  serious  necessity  for  keeping  the  marriage  strict- 
ly secret.  My  husband  and  I  kissed,  and  said  good-bye  till  to-mor- 
row, as  the  clock  struck  the  hour.  I  little  thought,  while  I  looked 
after  him  from  the  street-door,  that  months  on  months  were  to  pass 
before  I  saw  Roland  again. 

A  hurried  note  from  my  husband  reached  me  the  next  morning. 
Our  marriage  had  been  discovered  (we  never  could  tell  by  whom), 
and  we  had  been  betrayed  to  the  doctor.  Roland  was  then  on  his 
way  back  to  the  asylum.  He  had  been  warned  that  force  would  be 
used  if  he  resisted.  Knowing  that  resistance  would  be  interpreted, 
in  his  case,  as  a  new  outbreak  of  madness,  he  had  wisely  submitted. 
"  I  have  made  the  sacrifice,"  the  letter  concluded ;  "  it  is  now  for  you 
to  help  me.  Attack  the  Commission  in  Lunacy,  and  be  quick  about 
it !" 

We  lost  no  time  in  preparing  for  the  attack.  On  the  day  when  I 
received  the  news  of  our  misfortune  we  left  Eastbourne  for  London, 
and  at  once  took  measures  to  obtain  the  best  legal  advice. 

My  dear  father — though  I  was  far  from  deserving  his  kindness — 
entered  into  the  matter  heart  and  soul.  In  due  course  of  time,  we 
presented  a  petition  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  praying  that  the  de- 
cision of  the  Lunacy  Commission  might  be  set  aside. 

We  supported  our  petition  by  qubting  the  evidence  of  Roland's 
friends  and  neighbors,  during  his  three  years'  residence  in  the  Lake 
country,  as  a  free  man.  These  worthy  people  (being  summoned  be- 
fore the  Lunacy  Commission)  had  one  and  all  agreed  that  he  was, 
as  to  their  judgment  and  experience,  perfectly  quiet,  harmless,  and 
sane.  Many  of  them  had  gone  out  shooting  with  him.  Others  had 
often  accompanied  him  in  sailing  excursions  on  the  lake.  Do  peo- 
ple trust  a  madman  with  a  gun,  and  with  the  management  of  a 
boat  ?  As  to  the  "  act  of  violence,"  which  the  heirs  at  law  and  the 
next  of  kin  had  made  the  means  of  imprisoning  Roland  in  the 
mad-house,  it  amounted  to  this :  he  had  lost  his  temper,  and  had 
knocked  a  man  down  who  had  offended  him.  Very  wrong,  no 
doubt;  but  if  that  is  a  proof  of  madness,  what  thousands  of  lunatics 
are  still  at  large !  Another  instance  produced  to  prove  his  insanity 
was  still  more  absurd.  It  was  solemnly  declared  that  he  put  an  im- 
age of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  his  boat,  when  he  went  out  on  his  sailing 
excursions !  I  have  seen  the  image — it  was  a  very  beautiful  work 
of  art.  Was  Roland  mad  to  admire  it,  and  take  it  with  him  ?  His 
religious  convictions  leaned  toward  Catholicism.  If  he  betrayed  in- 
sanity in  adorning  his  boat  with  an  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  what 
is  the  mental  condition  of  most  of  the  ladies  in  Christendom  who 
wear  the  Cross  as  an  ornament  round  their  necks  ?  We  advanced 
these  arguments  in  our  petition,  after  quoting  the  evidence  of  the 
witnesses.  And  more  than  this,  we  even  went  the  length  of  admit- 


FATAL   FORTUNE.  533 

ting,  as  an  act  of  respect  toward  the  Court,  that  my  poor  husband 
might  be  eccentric  in  some  of  his  opinions  and  habits.  But  we  put 
it  to  the  authorities,  whether  better  results  might  not  be  expected 
from  placing  him  under  the  care  of  a  wife  who  loved  him,  and  whom 
he  loved,  than  from  shutting  him  up  in  an  asylum,  among  incurable 
madmen  as  his  companions  for  life. 

Such  was  our  petition.  ><>  tar  as  I  am  able  to  describe  it. 

The  decision  rested  with  the  Lords  Justices.  They  decided 
against  us. 

Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  our  witnesses  and  our  arguments,  these  mer- 
eiles<  lawyers  declared  that  the  doctor's  individual  assertion  of  my 
lm>l (ami's  insanity  was  enough  for  them.  They  considered  Roland's 
comfort  to  be  sufficiently  provided  for  in  the  asylum,  with  an  allow- 
ance of  seven  hundred  pounds  a  year — and  to  the  asylum  they  con- 
signed him  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  the  result  of  this  infamous  judgment 
was  to  deprive  me  of  the  position  of  Roland's  wife ;  no  lunatic  be- 
ing capable  of  contracting  marriage  by  law.  So  far  as  my  husband 
was  concerned,  the  result  may  be  best  stated  in  the  language  of  a 
popular  newspaper,  which  published  an  article  on  the  case.  "It  is 
possible  "  (said  the  article — I  wish  I  could  personally  thank  the  man 
who  wrote  it  '.;  ••  for  the  Court  of  Chancery  to  take  a  man  who  has  a 
large  fortune,  and  is  in  the  prime  of  life,  but  is  a  little  touched  in 
the  head,  and  make  a  monk  of  him,  and  then  report  to  itself  that 
the  comfort  and  happiness  of  the  lunatic  have  been  effectually  pro- 
vided for  at  the  expenditure  of  seven  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

Roland  was  determined,  however,  that  they  should  not  make  a 
monk  of  him — and, you  may  rely  upon  it, so  was  I! 

But  one  alternative  was  left  to  us.  The  authority  of  the  Court  of 
Chancery  (within  its  jurisdiction)  is  the  most  despotic  authority  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  Our  one  hope  was  in  taking  to  flight.  The 
price  of  our  liberty,  as  citizens  of  England,  was  exile  from  our  na- 
tive country,  and  the  entire  abandonment  of  Roland's  fortune.  We 
accepted  those  hard  conditions.  Hospitable  America  offered  us  a 
refuge,  beyond  the  reach  of  mad-doctors  and  Lords  Justices.  To 
hospitable  America  our  hearts  turned,  as  to  our  second  country. 
The  serious  question  was.  How  were  we  to  get  there  ? 

We  had  attempted  to  correspond,  and  had  failed.  Our  letters  had 
l>een  discovered  and  seized  by  the  proprietor  of  the  asylum.  For- 
tunately we  had  taken  the  precaution  of  writing  in  a  "cipher"  of 
Roland's  invention,  which  he  had  taught  me  before  our  marriage. 
Though  our  letters  were  illegible,  our  purpose  was  suspected,  as  a 
matter  of  course ;  and  a  watch  was  kept  on  my  husband  night  and 
day. 

Foiled  in  our  first  effort  at  making  arrangements  secretly  for  our 


534  FATAL    FORTUNE. 

flight,  we  continued  our  correspondence  (still  in  cipher)  by  means 
of  advertisement  in  the  newspapers.  This  second  attempt  was  dis- 
covered in  its  turn.  Roland  was  refused  permission  to  subscribe  to 
the  newspapers,  and  was  forbidden  to  enter  the  reading-room  at  the 
asylum.  These  tyrannical  prohibitions  came  too  late.  Our  plans 
had  already  been  communicated ;  we  understood  each  other,  and 
we  had  now  only  to  bide  our  time.  We  had  arranged  that  my 
brother  and  a  friend  of  his,  on  whose  discretion  we  could  thoroughly 
rely,  should  take  it  in  turns  to  watch  every  evening,  for  a  given  time, 
at  an  appointed  meeting-place,  three  miles  distant  from  the  asylum. 
The  spot  had  been  carefully  chosen.  It  was  on  the  bank  of  a  lone- 
ly stream,  and  close  to  the  outskirts  of  a  thick  wood.  A  water-proof 
knapsack,  containing  a  change  of  clothes,  a  false  beard  and  wig, 
and  some  biscuits  and  preserved  meat,  was  hidden  in  a  hollow  tree. 
My  brother  and  his  friend  always  took  their  fishing-rods  with  them, 
and  presented  themselves,  as  engaged  in  the  innocent  occupation  of 
angling,  to  any  chance  strangers  who  might  pass  within  sight  of 
them.  On  one  occasion  the  proprietor  of  the  asylum  himself  rode 
by  my  brother,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream,  and  asked  polite- 
ly if  he  had  had  good  sport ! 

For  a  fortnight  these  staunch  allies  of  ours  iclieved  each  other 
regularly  on  their  watch — and  no  signs  of  the  fugitive  appeared. 
On  the  fifteenth  evening,  just  as  the  twilight  was  changing  into 
night,  and  just  as  my  brother  (whose  turn  it  was)  had  decided  on 
leaving  the  place,  Roland  suddenly  joined  him  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream. 

Without  wasting  a  moment  in  words,  the  two  at  once  entered  the 
wood,  and  took  the  knapsack  from  its  place  of  shelter  in  the  hol- 
low tree.  In  ten  minutes  more  my  husband  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
workman's  clothes,  and  was  further  disguised  in  the  wig  and  beard. 
The  two  then  set  forth  down  the  course  of  the  stream,  keeping  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wood  until  the  night  had  fallen  and  the  darkness 
hid  them.  The  night  was  cloudy ;  there  was  no  moon.  After  walk- 
ing two  miles  or  a  little  more,  they  altered  their  course,  and  made 
for  the  high  -  road  to  Manchester,  entering  on  it  at  a  point  some 
thirty  miles  distant  from  the  city. 

On  their  way  from  the  wood,  Roland  described  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  effected  his  escape. 

The  story  was  simple  enough.  He  had  assumed  to  be  suffering 
from  nervous  illness,  and  had  requested  to  have  his  meals  in  his 
own  room.  For  the  first  fortnight,  the  two  men  appointed  to  wait 
upon  him  in  succession,  week  by  week,  were  both  more  than  his 
match  in  strength.  The  third  man  employed,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  third  week,  was  physically  a  less  formidable  person  than  his 
predecessors.  Seeing  this,  Roland  decided,  when  evening  came,  on 


FATAL    FORTUNE.  535 

committing  another  "act  of  violence."  In  plain  words,  he  sprang 
upon  tin-  keeper  waiting  on  him  in  his  room,  and  gagged  and  bound 
the  man. 

This  done,  he  laid  the  unlucky  keeper,  face  to  the  wall,  on  his 
o\\n  bed,  covered  with  his  own  cloak,  so  that  any  one  entering  the 
room  might  suppose  he  was  lying  down  to  rest.  He  had  previous- 
ly taken  the  precaution  to  remove  the  sheets  from  the  bed,  and  he 
had  now  only  to  tie  them  together  to  escape  by  the  window  of  his 
room,  situated  on  the  upper  floor  of  the  house.  The  sun  was  set- 
ting, and  the  inmates  of  the  asylum  were  then  at  tea.  After  nar- 
rowly missing  discovery  by  one  of  the  laborers  employed  in  the 
grounds,  lie  had  climbed  the  garden  inclosure,  and  had  dropped  on 
the  other  side — a  free  man! 

Arrived  on  the  high-road  to  Manchester,  my  husband  and  my 
brother  parted. 

Roland,  who  was  an  excellent  walker,  set  forth  on  his  way  to 
Manchester  on  foot.  He  had  food  in  his  knapsack,  and  he  proposed 
to  walk  some  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  on  the  road  to  the  city  before 
he  stopped  at  any  town  or  village  to  rest.  My  brother,  who  was 
physically  unable  to  accompany  him,  returned  to  the  place  in  which 
I  was  then  residing,  to  tell  me  the  good  news. 

By  the  tirst  train  the  next  morning  I  traveled  to  Manchester,  and 
took  a  lodging  in  a  suburb  of  the  city  known  to  my  husband  as 
well  as  to  me.  A  prim,  smoky  little  square  was  situated  in  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood  ;  and  we  had  arranged  that  whichever  of 
us  tirst  arrived  in  Manchester  should  walk  round  that  square,  be- 
tween twelve  and  one  in  the  afternoon,  and  between  six  and  seven 
in  the  evening.  In  the  evening  I  kept  my  appointment.  A  dusty, 
foot-sore  man.  in  shabby  clothes,  with  a  hideous  beard,  and  a  knap- 
sack on  his  back,  met  me  at  my  first  walk  round.  He  smiled  as  I 
looked  at  him.  Ah!  I  knew  that  smile  through  all  disguises.  In 
spite  of  the  Court  of  Chancery  and  the  Lords  Justices,  I  was  in  my 
husband's  arms  once  more. 

We  lived  quietly  in  our  retreat  for  a  month.  During  that  time 
(as  I  heard  by  letters  from  my  brother)  nothing  that  money  and 
cunning  could  do  toward  discovering  Roland  was  left  untried  by 
the  proprietor  of  the  asylum,  and  by  the  persons  acting  with  him. 
But  where  is  the  cunning  which  can  trace  a  man  who,  escaping  at 
night  in  disguise,  has  not  trusted  himself  to  a  railway  or  a  carriage, 
and  who  takes  refuge  in  a  great  city  in  which  he  has  no  friends  ? 
At  the  end  of  our  month  in  Manchester  we  traveled  northward, 
crossed  the  Channel  to  Ireland,  and  passed  a  pleasant  fortnight  in 
Dublin.  Leaving  this  again,  we  made  our  way  to  Cork  and  Queens- 
town,  and  embarked  from  that  latter  place  (among  a  crowd  of  steer- 
age passengers)  in  a  steamship  for  America. 


536  FATAL    FORTUNE. 

My  story  is  told.  I  am  writing  these  lines  from  a  farm  in  the 
west  of  the  United  States.  Our  neighbors  may  be  homely  enough ; 
but  the  roughest  of  them  is  kinder  to  us  than  a  mad-doctor  or  a 
Lord  Justice.  Roland  is  happy  in  those  agricultural  pursuits  which 
have  always  been  favorite  pursuits  with  him ;  and  I  am  happy  .with 
Roland.  Our  sole  resources  consist  of  my  humble  little  fortune,  in- 
herited from  my  dear  mother.  After  deducting  our  traveling  ex- 
penses, the  sum  total  amounts  to  between  seven  and  eight  hundred 
pounds ;  and  this,  as  we  find,  is  amply  sufficient  to  start  us  well  in 
the  new  life  that  we  have  chosen.  We  expect  my  father  and  my 
brother  to  pay  us  a  visit  next  summer  ;  and  I  think  it  is  just  possi- 
ble that  they  may  find  our  family  circle  increased  by  the  presence 
of  a  new  member  in  long  clothes.  Are  there  no  compensations  here 
for  exile  from  England  and  the  loss  of  a  fortune  ?  We  think  there 
are !  But  then,  my  dear  Miss  Anstell,  "  Mary  Brading's  husband  is 
mad,  and  Mary  Brading  herself  is  not  much  better." 

If  you  feel  inclined  to  alter  this  opinion,  and  if  you  remember  our 
old  days  at  school  as  tenderly  as  I  remember  them,  write  and  tell 
me  so.  Your  letter  will  be  forwarded,  if  you  send  it  to  the  inclosed 
address  at  New  York. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  moral  of  our  story  seems  to  be  worth  serious 
consideration.  A  certain  Englishman  legally  inherits  a  large  for- 
tune. At  the  time  of  his  inheritance,  he  has  been  living  as  a  free 
man  for  three  years  —  without  once  abusing  his  freedom,  and  with 
the  express  sanction  of  the  niedical  superintendent  who  has  had  ex- 
perience and  charge  of  him.  His  next  of  kin  and  his  heirs  at  law 
(who  are  left  out  of  the  fortune)  look  with  covetous  eyes  at  the 
money,  and  determine  to  get  the  management  and  the  ultimate  pos- 
session of  it.  Assisted  by  a  doctor,  whose  honesty  and  rapacity 
must  be  taken  on  trust,  these  interested  persons,  in  this  nineteenth 
century  of  progress,  can  lawfully  imprison  their  relative  for  life,  in  a 
country  which  calls  itself  free,  and  which  declares  that  its  justice  is 
equally  administered  to  all  alike. 

NOTE. — The  reader  is  informed  that  this  story  is  founded,  in  all  essential 
particulars,  on  a  case  which  actually  occurred  in  England,  eight  years  since. 

W.C. 


END  OF  "FATAL  FORTUNE.' 


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